How to Play a Game Called Murder
by Liathwen
Summary: Moriarty is back and Sherlock decides the only safe place for Molly is at Baker Street. Of course, neither of them are prepared for the reality of being together round the clock, or what is in store for them courtesy of the Irish psychopath. Spoilers for Season 3. (Originally published on AO3.)
1. I'll Never Tell

Sherlock didn't bother to lower the phone from his ear after Mycroft hung up. His mind was reeling, grasping at impossible possibilities. How, how could he have survived? And even if he could survive, how had Sherlock missed it? He saw Moriarty blow his own brains out, right in front of him on Bart's roof. There was no way to fake that. But apparently, there was, because the psychopath was back.

He cursed his arrogance and thoughtlessness. Why didn't I check his body? Why didn't I make sure his heart stopped? Why didn't I shoot him myself? Granted, I hadn't killed anyone up to that point but I got over that pretty quickly afterwards. Oh, I should have known. We are the same, if I could fake my death, then so could he. Sherlock shook his head violently. No, no, this doesn't make any sense. It isn't possible. There is no way. There has to be a piece of this puzzle missing. And besides, I spent two years taking down everything he worked for and saw no sign of him. Not a single hint that he could be alive. He can't be that good, can he?

He fought a small smile. As John would say, mirth was inappropriate at a crime scene. And if Moriarty were truly back, all of England was about to become a crime scene. If he was entirely honest, Sherlock was excited as well as afraid. His greatest adversary was back. He had someone to challenge him. Not that he relished the thought of actually dying this time but the thrill of the situation ran through his veins like a drug. He smiled ironically. It was either cocaine or a case. Nothing else gave him that intense feeling.

_Well, maybe… No, let's not let our mind wander._ He leaned back, closing his eyes, and proceeded to steeple his fingers as the plane landed, preparing to delve into his mind and dig up the memory of that day that he never could delete, no matter how hard he tried. Before he could lose himself in thought though, John burst into the plane yelling, with Mary hot on his heels.

"Sherlock?! Sherlock! Molly!" Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

_Molly Hooper. Oh shit._ It wouldn't be difficult for Moriarty to work out that she assisted him that day. As long as that maniac was loose, Molly's life was in grave danger. _Let's not explore why that causes a literal pain in my chest._ He sprang to his feet, pushing past the couple and down the stairs to the waiting car, fingers quickly pulling up a rarely used speed dial contact. It rang several times, going to voicemail afterwards, and he cursed.

_Really, Molly! Of all the times to be doing an autopsy!_ He told himself that that was what was happening, that nothing was wrong. Flinging open the rear door of the car, he slid in, tersely snapping out orders to the driver.

"Get me to Bart's. Now!" Mycroft rolled his eyes but stayed uncharacteristically silent, probably knowing that Sherlock's concern was entirely in the right place. At any rate, there were no goldfish comments.

John and Mary jumped in after him, all three squeezing into the back seat with Mary in the middle and Mycroft across from them with his back to the driver. Sherlock tapped his knee with his fingers, unable to keep the manic energy inside of him bottled up completely. Mary's eyes flitted to his shaking hands and she nudged John gently in the side, motioning towards them almost imperceptibly with her head. Sherlock, lost in his own world, didn't notice. John nodded slightly and grasped Mary's hand, and met Mycroft's incredulous gaze (obviously he wasn't grasping why Sherlock was so agitated, not a surprise considering his nickname was 'Iceman') before he resumed staring out the window at the city passing by at a rate that was undoubtedly not in compliance with the speed limit.

Sherlock's head spun. Entering his mind palace, he searched for Molly. For reasons he didn't want to explore, Molly had become the voice in his head. The voice he trusted more than any other. Even John. While John was there as well, his voice was more for snarky comments, representing the sarcastic part of his brain. The part of his brain that argued with him when he tried to deny something that was true. Molly was his rock, the logical portion of his mind that kept him alive and safe. Well, mostly safe. It didn't keep him from getting shot but it DID save his life afterwards. He dismissed the fact that Anderson had been there as well. He had only agreed with Molly's advice.

Sherlock searched through his mind for the conjecture of the petite pathologist but couldn't seem to find her. An irrational fear gripped him, after all he was only searching for an image of her, not the real woman, and he ran to a secured door and flung it open.

A terrifying sight greeted him. The padded walls of the room were cut and torn with the letters I.O.U. all over the place. There were drops of blood on the floor and a sniper's rifle leaned casually against the wall just inside the doorway. In the place that Moriarty was previously secured, only chains remained, the locks broken open. No sign of the psychopath anywhere. Sherlock's heart stopped.

_Oh God. _

He had to get to Molly before Moriarty did.


	2. An Incident in the Morgue

The city flashed past, the driver veering down side streets and taking shortcuts to avoid traffic.

Mycroft spent the entire trip on his phone, speaking first to one person, then another, trying to get a handle on the situation. No one seemed to be able to tell him any useful information though and the frustration was becoming increasingly apparent on his usually unreadable face.

John stared unseeing out the window, lost in some rather disturbing thoughts. Mary held his hand reassuringly, doing her best to keep his rising fear down. He might have been a soldier with nerves of steel, but the thought of Moriarty made John's blood run cold. After all, the last time he saw psychopath, he was forcing his best friend to jump from a roof and had a sniper focused on John's head. And the time before that, Moriarty had strapped John into a bomb. Really not the best memories there and definitely not something John was keen on reliving.

Sherlock continued to drum on his thighs impatiently. The trip was taking entirely too long and the driver wasn't taking the right streets to get there in the shortest amount of time. Sherlock huffed a sigh and came out of his thoughts to have the eyes of all other passengers in the car fixed on him. He glared at all of them, easily reading their expressions of concern, and in Mycroft's case annoyance, and pulled his phone out of his pocket, punching Molly's speed dial again. It rang twice before she picked up.

"Molly?" Sherlock tentatively questioned when she did not say her usual cheery hello. There was a moment of silence.

"Sherlock," Molly finally whispered, her voice shaking with barely controlled fear. "Sherlock, someone's here." Sherlock's face blanched and he glanced quickly at Mycroft who hung up his call and dialed another number, barking out that he needed someone at Bart's to collect Molly Hooper five minutes ago. He clicked his phone shut and Sherlock turned his attention back to the woman on the other line. "Molly, take a deep breath. Tell me where you are." After a pause she replied, her voice cracking halfway through.

"I'm in the supply closet. He knows I'm in here. He's just standing outside the door, waiting for something." She hesitated then whispered, "Sherlock, I'm scared." He wanted nothing more than to say "Me too," but he couldn't show that kind of weakness to anyone so he said a simple, "I know."

Suddenly, there was the sound of a door banging open and Molly issued a shriek that ended abruptly with sounds of a struggle. Sherlock's face paled further as he punched speaker so the other occupants of the car could hear. An outraged cry of pain came from a man and then came a thud. And silence.

Sherlock dropped the phone onto the floorboard, his fingers going numb. In fact, every part of him felt numb. He barely registered that Mycroft picked up the phone and was yelling into it that if Molly could hear him they would be at Bart's in two minutes and she should run out the front of the building if she could. Mary was crying softly as she and John held onto each other's hands with a death grip. Sherlock stared unseeing at the floor.

Suddenly, they came to a violent stop, all occupants of the vehicle thrown forward with the force of the halt. Mycroft started to berate the driver but the words died away at the glanced up at the building in front of them. John followed his gaze then reached over to punch Sherlock in the arm, startling him from his daze.

"Sherlock, door, now!" Sherlock's head popped up and he automatically opened his door, before looking out. The sight that greeted him was both disturbing and relieving. Doctor Molly Hooper was barreling towards the car, running as fast as her feet could take her. Her hair was falling from her ponytail, her face stained with tears, and, much more frightening, blood was splattered all over her face, chest, arms and hands. In one hand, she gripped a scalpel, unable to let go. He opened the door further and Molly literally dove in, landing across the thighs of Sherlock, Mary and John, with her head in John's lap. Sherlock slammed the door closed and the car began to move, as Molly rolled off of them and onto the floor between the two seats. She drew her knees up close to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, whimpering softly but not saying anything.

Sherlock felt at a loss. What to do? He gently reached down and pried the scalpel from her fingers and laid it down next to his feet. There was a moment of complete silence and he asked, "Molly, what happened?" She gave a bitter laugh that ended in a sob and studied him with watery eyes.

"Do you have to ask?" He shook his head.

"You killed him. That's good. He would have killed you." John cleared his throat and Sherlock shot a quick look at him. "What? Not good?"

"No. Not good." John looked down at her, concerned, and declared softly, "Molly, it's going to be ok. You had no other choice." She gulped down a shaky breath and nodded slightly.

The car pulled up to Baker Street and without really thinking Sherlock opened his door and scooped Molly up in his arms, carrying her to the door, where he paused for John to grab the keys from his coat pocket and open it, and all the way up the stairs, depositing her on the couch. Mary and Mycroft followed closely behind and Mary immediately went into the kitchen to make tea. John stopped off at Mrs. Hudson's flat and explained the situation to her, asking if she had any biscuits to go with the tea, as the sugar might help Molly stay away from a panic attack. They joined the others in 221B just as the tea was ready and Mrs. Hudson rushed to prepare a tray for Molly. She took it gratefully and sipped on the tea but refused a biscuit.

"Molly," John took her hand. "Please eat just one. The sugar will help you." She took a tiny bite out of one and smiled shakily.

"You are all very sweet. Thank you but I'm sure Sherlock wants to know what happened." She turned her eyes to the tall detective who had flopped down into his chair and remained silent after placing Molly on the couch. He started at the sound of his name and looked around before focusing on a spot on the wall above Molly's shoulder, unwilling or unable to meet her gaze. He gave a curt nod and she summoned her courage before starting.

"Well, I was in the lab when he came on the telly. I saw it and ran down to the morgue to get my things from the office and go home early. As I was leaving my office, I heard the morgue door open. You know, it has that squeaky hinge so I always hear it open. Well, the person who opened it was trying to be quiet because as soon as the hinge started to squeak, they didn't open it further and slipped in through the space that was there. I knew there was only one reason someone would not want me to know that they were there so I dove into the supply closet and locked it. That's when you called, Sherlock. Then he kicked the door open and I dropped my phone and purse." She took a cleansing breath before continuing. "He hit me." Sherlock involuntarily made a fist at that, his knuckles turning white, and examined the blossoming bruise on her cheek. Molly observed him with a bewildered look on her face but resumed after a beat.

"There was a box of disposable scalpels and I grabbed one… and I cut him… I don't think I killed him though. I cut his face and part of his neck. I'm pretty sure I missed the artery. I caused some damage but I highly doubt there would have been enough blood loss to kill him." Mycroft walked into the kitchen to make a call, no doubt ordering someone to begin the search for her attacker.

"Sherlock, I've seen him before." Sherlock finally met her gaze, his expression one of horror.

"No, no, it wasn't Ji… Moriarty." She hastily reassured.

"Who then?" John questioned.

"I don't know." Molly shook her head. "I am positive that I have seen him before though."

Sherlock jumped to his feet, startling everyone and rubbed his hands together. "Well then, this has all been very enlightening but John and I really must be going. Don't want it to get dark before we get back. Much too difficult." He considered the confused faces before him before heaving a sigh and rolling his eyes dramatically. "Obviously, we have to go to Molly's flat and bring her things here since she will be staying for the foreseeable future."


	3. Win Some, Lose Some

Sherlock found himself staring down at one rather furious Molly Hooper. He eyed John and Mary, looking for a clue as to why his pathologist was so irate. He had thought she would be thrilled with the idea of cohabitation. John seemed as confused as Sherlock while Mary was shaking with silent laughter. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft's head pop into view from the kitchen and he directed an irritated glare at his brother, which was ignored as usual, as punishment for being obnoxiously nosy.

_Ah, subtle, Mrs. Hudson_, he thought, as his landlady (not housekeeper) quietly slipped out of the room and back down the stairs to her own flat. _No doubt time for your 'herbal soother.'_

Just then, there was the chime of the doorbell, which Mrs. Hudson answered, and Lestrade came bounding up the steps to join the crowd. Greg surveyed the scene before him; the tiny, infuriated Doctor Hooper with her hands on her hips, scowling up at a genuinely confused detective and the observers standing to one side, then cleared his throat. Sherlock directed his focus on the detective inspector and clapped his hands together.

"Ah, Gavin, excellent timing. I was just telling Doctor Hooper that it would be in everyone's best interest for her to stay here under my protection for the time being. Do assure her that this is the most convenient solution to the problem of her safety."

Greg made a face at Sherlock, knowing full well that he only used wrong names to bother him, before turning to Molly, his expression thoughtful. "You would be safer with someone to protect you…"

Sherlock cut him off. "There, you see? Scotland Yard agrees with me."

Greg held up a hand and Sherlock glowered at him. "No, no. I'm not agreeing with you. I said she needs **_someone_****.** Not specifically you."

Sherlock appeared affronted. "Who could possibly protect her better than me?"

Lestrade shrugged and sarcastically retorted, "Oh, I dunno, almost anyone? Face it, Sherlock. Not like you really have the patience for that kind of thing. You'd have to keep an eye on her all the time. Knowing you, you'd find a case and run off, forget all about her."

Sherlock gaped at him, not knowing exactly what to say to that. "Molly, maybe I can spare some men to watch your flat or perhaps Mycroft could assign a couple agents to you." He shuffled his feet and licked his lips nervously. "Or you **_could_** stay with me for a while. I've got the place to myself now, you know, and there's a spare bedroom. Bath too."

Sherlock scowled at him, barely concealed fury in his eyes, and he spat out through clenched teeth, "Thank you for your **_kind_** offer, but I highly doubt that Moly will appreciate your attentions so soon after your divorce and the end of her engagement." The detective inspector turned red and glared awkwardly at his feet. _That'll make him think twice before attempting to flirt with my pathologist._

Molly's voice cut through the haze of jealousy, (_wait, jealousy? I'm not jealous, am I?_)with a gentle refusal of Greg's offer, citing work schedule conflicts, but that maybe his notion of Mycroft's or Lestrade's men would work.

"No, impossible. One, they are idiots. Two, it's too easy to infiltrate their ranks and I simply don't have time to go through them all."

Molly turned her attention back to him, her fury undiminished. "You think you can just order me to stay here and I'll be happy about it?"

_Well, yes_, he reflected. He decided to employ a couple tricks that always worked with the pathologist. Staring into her eyes, Sherlock put on his best expression of vulnerability and in a pleading tone said, "Molly, you have to stay here with me. I need to know you are safe." _A bit unnerving, how true that was_.

He heard a snort come from Mycroft's general direction; _oh I will strangle him someday_, and saw a look that spelled murder on John's face. _Well, let him be angry. We all know this is the best solution, no matter how it comes about. _Mary was again fighting laughter_, mental note to ask her what the hell she finds so hilarious about all of this_, and Greg appeared positively sick, Sherlock noted with no small amount of glee.

That glee died however when he refocused on Molly. She was frowning up at him with an expression of hurt and anger. Before he could dodge, she brought her hand up, slapping him so hard that he was positive it would bruise. _Wait, what was that for? The big, sad eyes always work on her. What is going on?_

"How dare you try to manipulate me that way again, Sherlock Holmes. After everything…" her shaky voice trailed off and tears filled her eyes.

Exasperated, Sherlock said something he regretted the second it left his mouth. "Janine rather liked sleeping here; I don't see why you shouldn't either." The collective gasp in the room made him wince. _Oh __**very**__ not good._

Molly narrowed her eyes at him for a moment then responded in the sweetest, most sarcastic tone known to man. "Of course, how could I forget? Sherlock only pretends to care about people when it is relevant to a case. As I am at the heart of this one, I am needed." She crossed her arms and pursed her lips. "Oh, I will stay. And I will make your life a living hell if you so much as speak one word to me Sherlock Holmes." With that, she turned and stalked out of the room, stomping on each stair as she ascended to John's old bedroom and slamming the door once she got there.

Sherlock scanned around the room puzzled. "Did I win or lose that round?" He asked Mary.

"Oh, Sherlock… You **_definitely_** lost that one," she replied, falling onto the couch, positively vibrating with mirth.

John shook his head. "You really need to learn when to shut up, mate. Not sure Molly really wants to think about Janine sleeping here."

Sherlock nodded an affirmation. "I don't see why though. She knows it was for a case." John let out an exasperated sigh and shrugged at Greg as if to say he was giving up.

Mycroft rejoined them then, "Sherlock, do **_try_** to smooth things over with Miss Hooper. It will make my agent's job a lot easier if she will speak to you of her work schedule and any plans for leaving the flat."

Sherlock nodded again, annoyed, and headed towards the door. "I'm taking your car, brother dear. Molly will need her things from her flat. Oh God, I suppose I have to bring that awful cat as well." He frowned. Toby and he were not on the best of terms. Then again, he wasn't on the best of terms with Toby's mistress at this point in time and bringing her cat without being asked might go a ways towards forgiveness. John followed, motioning for Lestrade to do so as well and they disappeared down the stairs. Mycroft gave a curt nod to them before pulling out his cell to call for another car to get him.

Mary grabbed a couple biscuits off the tray, patting her belly, and sighed as she began to make her way up the stairs to console a, probably, sobbing Molly Hooper. _Really, Sherlock, for a genius, you can be incredibly dense._


	4. The New Normal

"I hate your bath." Molly Hooper stalked through the living room wearing nothing but a towel on her way upstairs. Sherlock ignored her. It was the fifth time in as many days that he had heard the pint-sized woman complain about the tub in John's old bathroom. Her bathroom now, he supposed, since neither of them knew exactly how long they would be cohabiting. She had a soaker tub at home and was resenting the downgrade. Sherlock watched her retreating back as she started up the stairs, balancing a can of coke, a package of biscuits and her e-reader while clutching the (not big enough) towel around her.

She had her quirks, just like him. Where Sherlock hid his cigarettes in a Persian slipper, Molly would laze for hours in water hot enough to turn her skin red and read on her e-reader while snacking.

Sherlock discovered her perchance for soaking in the bath that first day. He and John had finally returned from Molly's flat with the majority of Molly's closet in tow (though Sherlock had suggested they burn most of the unflattering and overly cheerful jumpers which earned him a rap on the ear from John,) and a couple boxes of other items. Mycroft was to send a couple men over the following day to box up the rest and put the furniture that didn't fit in her room into storage.

Sherlock and John exchanged looks over the boxes as they carried them up the stairs and set them outside the closed door. They had both been rather embarrassed boxing up her underwear but she couldn't go without it so it was a necessary evil. Sherlock blushed now, remembering some of the lacy bra and panty combinations. (Whatever her frumpy choices in outside clothing, he now knew that what was on the inside was very sexy indeed.) He briefly mused on the whys of that but tore his thoughts away before they could go into dangerous territory.

Anyway, after John and Mary departed, he had gone up to her room and rapped on the door with an offering of chocolate to help soothe her raging temper. There had been no answer and he called out, "Molly, please let me in. John made me buy you some chocolates." There was silence for a moment then he heard a splash come from the bath. He turned to inspect the door to the bathroom and heard a scuffling noise and the sound of a towels being taken from the rack. Abruptly, the door opened and Molly's head poked out. She held out her hand and Sherlock looked down at the bag of chocolates he grasped and walked over to her, holding them out. She snatched the bag and slammed the door in his face. He stood there for a moment, completely confused, and the door reopened.

"Tell John I said thank you." And the door slammed again.

Three hours later without a sound except the occasional running of water (which hadn't happened in a while,) he tapped on the door again. No answer.

"Molly?" Silence again. He began to worry. "Molly, answer me!" He sprinted downstairs and grabbed a lock pick and ran back up, picking the lock in seconds. He burst into the room and skidded to a stop.

The room was steamy, the mirror fogged, and Molly lay in the tub, covered in bubbles, with her feet propped up, candy wrappers all over the floor and her tablet in her hand. She glared up at him.

"Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're doing?!" He blushed to the roots of his hair, swiftly looking down at his hands and muttering something about making sure she was okay before backing out of the room as fast as possible.

And every day since then she had disappeared into the bath just like that. Always taking something to eat with her and staying for hours. He asked her what she had been reading when she finally appeared and she had just given him an odd look before replying, "A novel." She didn't elaborate and he didn't press, though he did wonder why he never saw her tablet left out even though she seemed to use it a lot. _Oh well, question to answer another day._

So today, as she stalked upstairs, Sherlock knew to expect a few hours of alone time. Not that most of his time wasn't alone time. Molly was almost always at work or in her room. She was still angry with Sherlock for basically forcing her to live at Baker Street.

_Well, she can fume all she wants, I'm not apologizing for trying to keep her safe. _

The only exception was when she had taken over the kitchen on the second day, moving or throwing away his experiments (which he had sulked about) and cleaning it thoroughly before spending the entire afternoon baking delicious treats. Biscuits, a loaf of bread and a cake came together under her talented hands.

Confirming that Mycroft had surveillance in the flat, he dropped by to "check on them" that evening, helping himself to a piece of cake and subtly wrapping up a piece to take with him. Sherlock made a mental note to look for cameras when he got bored.

Today though, he was surprised when she appeared after only a half hour, dressed in a ratty, old, grey tee shirt several sizes too big for her petite frame and plaid pajama shorts, her wet hair caught up in a towel. She snatched up the remote control and turned on the telly. She flipped through a couple channels and found what she was looking for, an episode of Doctor Who.

Sherlock wouldn't admit it to anyone but he secretly liked the show. (He had been highly amused to see a TARDIS on the wall of theories Anderson had compiled.) He affected a look of pure boredom, pretending to work on his laptop but all the while watching out the corner of his eye. It was a new episode so both he and Molly watched the entirety in silence, with only the occasional gasp coming from the pathologist.

He was struck by how domestic it would look to an outsider and the thought disturbed him.

As soon as the credits rolled, he sprang up, startling her. "Now that you are finished with that inane show, perhaps we can discuss plans to find Moriarty or whoever is threatening us." She scowled at his description of her favorite show but kept her mouth shut about it, choosing instead to address the latter part of the statement.

"The more I think about it, the more I believe that it isn't Jim … Moriarty." (He had shot her a look that read disapproval of her use of his nemeses' name so familiarly.) "I know I recognized the man in the morgue. I just have no idea where I have seen him before."

"Well maybe if you weren't mooning about all the time, you would have a better memory." He shot out bitterly, still stinging that she seemed comfortable referring to a psychopath as 'Jim.'

She glared at him venomously. "Watch it, Sherlock. I know where you sleep."

"Obviously Molly, we are cohabitating…" he trailed off as he caught the implied threat. "Sorry."

"No you aren't."

"No, I'm really not," he acquiesced.

She rolled her eyes and heaved a long suffering sigh. "Anyway, I don't remember and being rude about it isn't going to change that. So do we have a plan?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I have no idea what he wants. Besides myself of course. And I can only assume you as well." He studied her for a moment. "They must have deduced that you were involved in my previous brush with death and decided to go after you."

He wouldn't say it, but that bothered him greatly. If it wasn't for Sherlock, Molly would be in no danger. She would have a relatively normal life, (not completely normal, she did work with dead bodies, was painfully shy and dressed like a grandmother,) and wouldn't have to worry about potential hit men. Deep down though, he knew that she had a choice and had chosen to stay by his side. She was loyal. Like John. He depended on and trusted both more than he would ever admit.

"So what do we do?"

He eyed her. "Do? We go on as normal until we have more data. Mycroft's men, dull and predictable though they are, will eventually uncover information that I will find useful. Until then, we wait."

Molly's shoulders sagged. "Fantastic. I would like my life back at some point, Sherlock."

He shrugged, eyes on his computer. "Not like I wasn't present in your thoughts the majority of the time before. Now, it's a physical presence. Not much difference."

She nodded in sarcastic agreement. "And on that charming note, I'm going to bed." She rose from the chair and he grabbed at her hand as she passed by. She jumped and looked down at him in surprise as she felt his fingers close around her wrist.

He dropped her hand quickly, looking as if the touch had burned him and mumbled a goodnight. She stared at him for a moment as he kept his gaze on the screen in his lap before heading upstairs and closing the door.

Sherlock waited until he heard the door shut and hopped up, starting to pace the room with a frantic energy. _What the hell possessed me to do that? Ridiculous, stupid sentiment. Ugh, sentiment is worthless and I don't indulge in it. I refuse._ He mentally pouted. _I'm already deep in it. Shit._


	5. Reintroductions and Revelations

A month passed with no new developments.

Sherlock and Molly gradually fell into a routine, becoming more at ease with living together. Occasionally, she would help with his experiments, mostly observing and taking notes while he handled the samples. The easy way they worked together in the lab translated over to the research done in the flat and Sherlock found that he got a lot more done when she was willing to be his partner.

Molly baked on her days off (Sherlock hadn't seen so much of Mycroft since they were kids living in their parents' house.) He had to admit (to himself) that he had gained a bit of weight since she moved in. Sherlock had taken to sitting at the kitchen table to watch her work. When questioned by her the first time he did it, he replied that he was bored. In truth, he liked observing her. She was efficient in everything she did and baking was no exception. She precisely measured ingredients and mixed them together before placing them in the oven (which she always checked before pre-heating after accidentally incinerating some papers Sherlock had put inside the rarely used appliance the first time she baked.)

It was in the midst of a batch of biscuits that Sherlock received a phone call. He glanced at the display and paled.

**Call Blocked**.

He motioned for Molly to stop her actions and sit next to him, which she did, albeit looking a bit confused, before he answered, putting it on speaker for her to hear as well.

"Hello?" he said, hoping it wasn't what he thought.

Of course, it was, and a voice sang out, "Honey, I'm home!" There was a tinge of Irish lilt to be heard in it, though the voice itself was distorted a bit, making it impossible to correctly identify from sound alone.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Is that supposed to make me happy?"

"Oh, it should Sherlock. It should. I **_know_** you missed me. All those other criminals are so boring, aren't they? You missed our game." Sherlock remained silent, waiting for the point of the conversation.

Suddenly, the voice sang again, this time louder, making both Molly and the detective jump.

"Molly, my love, are you there?!" Sherlock frowned at the endearment but nodded for her to answer.

"I'm here. Who are you?" she replied, making an effort to keep her voice from shaking. Her lips trembled ever so slightly and Sherlock found himself taking her hand in his before he really thought about it.

"Good golly, Miss Molly!" the voice sang out, ignoring her question. "Never would've pegged you to be the type of girl to shack up with a guy so quickly! Especially one who you know doesn't care about you at all. Not when you were **_such_** a **_prude_** on our dates." The voice sounded almost offended.

Here, Sherlock and Molly made eye contact. Jim from IT. Moriarty.

"It's ok though. I eventually got your clothes off, didn't I, Mols?"

Molly stiffened as Sherlock shot her a rather furious glare. Seeing raw pain in her eyes though, his expression turned first to confusion, then horror. Before he could say anything to her however, the voice continued.

"But to be fair, **_our_** consulting detective **_is_** yummy, isn't he? And **_such_** a challenge. Not even she could get him into bed, and God knows she's **_much_** more talented than you. You haven't a prayer, little angel. Best give up now while you're ahead!"

Molly's eyes were filled with tears by this point and the sight of her in distress made Sherlock angry for reasons he'd rather not investigate now.

"You always go for the bad guys though, don't you Molly?"

Sherlock had finally had enough. "Is there a point to this conversation?" he asked coldly.

"Oh yes, Sherlock! Of course there's a point! There's always a point! But you'll have to figure it out on your own because I've got a date! Bye bye!" With that, the line went dead.

Sherlock slowly lowered his phone to the table and reclaimed the hand that Molly had taken from him during the course of the phone call. Her hand was stiff in his grasp, her eyes avoiding his, and he sighed before asking the obvious question.

"When, Molly? When did he hurt you?"

She gazed up at him, keeping her face carefully blank, and replied quietly, "Not long after I broke up with him. It was before the pool so I thought it was just the actions of an angry ex."

Sherlock gave a rather annoyed huff. "And why didn't you tell me?"

Molly let the tears fall then, silently streaming down her cheeks as she mumbled her response to the floor. "Because I don't matter."

A flash of true pain crossed Sherlock's face, unseen by Molly as she maintained her stare at the floor. "Molly, how many times must I tell you that you do count. You're one of the few who do."

Her head shot up, her angry glare catching him off guard. "No I don't, Sherlock! If I mattered to you, you would've seen the bruises. The sadness! The pain! But you didn't even look at me! You never do and you never will!"

She snatched her hand back from him and ran from the room, abandoning the biscuits and him in the kitchen, as she scurried up to the relative privacy of her room.

Sherlock sat in shock, staring in nothing in particular, going over and over Molly's words in his mind. How could he have missed it? He had been so caught up in himself that he hadn't seen the pain under his pathologist's cheerful smile. Or he had dismissed it as a symptom of breakup. Either way, he had failed her. No wonder Moriarty had thought that she didn't matter. No wonder there was no sniper on her that day.

Sherlock now understood the point of the phone call. It was to drive a wedge between him and his pathologist. And Sherlock had no intentions of letting that happen.


	6. Failed Attempt

Three days later, Sherlock put his plan into play.

Molly had barely spoken to him since they received the phone call and it was driving him crazy. The logical portion of his mind (the annoying part that sounded like Mycroft) told him that it shouldn't matter if she was angry with him or not, that he should be focusing on finding Moriarty, or whoever, so life could go back to normal. While he DID puzzle over it, he also spent a good deal of his time scheming out ways to regain Molly's good favor.

He hated to admit it but he missed the way she used to blush and giggle self-consciously whenever he was near her. He even missed when she berated him for being thoughtless and rude. Now, she was just silent and it was killing him. So he formulated a plan to get on her good side.

_If I take her out for coffee, she'll be thrilled and go back to adoring me._ He shook his head_. Not that I want her mooning over me like before _(he lied to himself, since when did he need to do that?) _but anything is preferable to the deadly quiet that radiates from her now. _

He grinned to himself before going to his closet and choosing his clothes with care. _She loves this shirt_, he thought, picking up the deep purple one that made her breath hitch when she saw him in it. He finished dressing (black suit and shoes) and pulled out the Belstaff and his favorite blue scarf. _She loves this too._ He smirked, shrugging on the coat and tying the scarf around his long neck before taking the stairs to her room two at a time in his eagerness while slipping on his leather gloves. It was a cold day in February and he was thankful for it. His signature look wasn't all that comfortable in summer.

He rapped loudly on her door before opening it without waiting for a response. There was a shriek and Molly dove into the bed, burrowing under the blankets. Sherlock's eyes widened as he caught a glimpse of bare bottom and he quickly dropped his eyes to the floor.

"Ummm," he cleared his throat. "Sorry Molly. Forgot to wait." He clasped his hands in front of him and looked back up at her, her head the only thing showing above the duvet, and put on his best contrite expression.

She lifted a brow, obviously not fooled, and huffed. "What could you possibly want, Sherlock? I already told you that I don't want to help you with any experiments."

He shook his head and responded, "We are out of coffee and since it is such a cold day, I would like a cup." She made to berate him for the supposed demand, but he cut her off with a hand held up. "I thought you might like to accompany me to the café."

Her face was the picture of surprise, her mouth falling open and eyes widening before narrowing again in suspicion, her mouth tightening into a flat line. "Is this for a case?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, shaking his head at her. "Molly, really. Can I not ask you out for coffee?"

"Well you never did before!"

"Well I am now!" he cried out in exasperation. "You are making this rather difficult!" They stared each other down for a moment and Sherlock was about to give up and stomp downstairs for a sulk when she sighed, resigned.

"Alright, alright. We'll go to the café. Why, I don't know."

"For coffee, Molly. Obviously." She shot him a distrustful glare but made to get up. He remained standing in the door and she glared at him.

"I need to get dressed."

"Mmm," he hummed his affirmation. "That might help."

"Sherlock, OUT."

"Oh, right, sorry."

A few minutes later, she appeared downstairs, dressed in a hideous strawberry print jumper that Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from commenting on.

"Where is your coat?" he asked as she pulled on a pair of leather gloves, more delicate than his and a light beige color. She let out a long suffering sigh as she settled a silly looking Peruvian hat on her head.

"You tore it apart to experiment on the synthetic fibers inside last week, remember?"

Now that she mentioned it, he did vaguely remember that. He felt a pang of regret, it really was cold outside. For a moment, he considered calling it off but she brushed past him, heading down to the front door so he merely trailed along behind, keeping his mouth firmly shut.

They walked in silence down the block to the tiny café. It was less than two blocks, still, she was shivering by the time they arrived. He opened the door for her, eliciting another surprised look, and followed her inside. Molly left him to stand in line as she went to find an open table in the crowd. Sherlock ordered their coffee, glancing around him as he waited, his jaw tightening as his gaze fell on a tall gentleman, leaning over Molly and chatting with her.

She had a genuine grin on her face, one that he hadn't seen in a while, and a wave of annoyance surged up in him. He snatched the mugs of coffee from the barista and stalked over to the two happily conversing people. He plunked her mug down in front of her rather harshly and turned to stare down the man, preparing to rip him apart.

_How dare he flirt with my pathologist?_ he thought, jealously. He opened his mouth and out of the corner of his eye, saw Molly bury her face in her hands, knowing exactly what was coming. Sherlock eyed the bloke and launched into his deductions, barely breathing between sentences.

"Married with a young child, probably daughter, judging from the slight remnants of pink sparkly lip gloss on the cheek. Girls wear that, not women. Ring mark on finger, indention still visible but fading, so going through a rough patch then, the ring has been off several weeks. Nail polish stain on the shirt sleeve, knocked it over when it was left open on the counter, grown women use that so they still live together. I suggest you don't pursue this one, Molly." Sherlock smirked in triumph looking to Molly who was stricken. His smile faded a bit as he took in the expression. The man glared at Sherlock icily, taking stock of his rival and then glanced down at Molly.

"Is this your boyfriend?" She shook her head vehemently and he seemed to believe her. "Of course not. No one could deal with such an arse." He turned back to Sherlock and gave him a cold smile. "You're wrong actually."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. He was sure of his deductions but before he could defend them, mystery man resumed. "Even the great detective can be wrong apparently. I do have a daughter, four years old, but my wife died in a car accident nearly two years ago. I have just recently taken off my ring because I wasn't comfortable without it until not too long ago. As for the woman in my house, that would be my younger sister. She's crashing at mine until she can find her own flat close to the university."

He turned back to Molly with a true smile. "Now, can I take you to dinner sometime?" She blushed and nodded, giving him her phone number before he strode out the door, leaving Sherlock and Molly in awkward silence.

He dropped to the seat in front of her and they drank their coffee, not making eye contact the entire time. Sherlock finished first, scalding his mouth a bit in the process, and sat fiddling with his cup, waiting for Molly.

_Well, that plan failed miserably. It's all that idiot's fault. And Molly. How dare she flirt? At least Meat Dagger was obviously a copy of me. This guy looked nothing like me._

Sherlock mentally reviewed the man. Tall, dark hair. Those were the only similarities. Instead of bright blue, the stranger's eyes were a warm brown. He was broader than Sherlock too, and was quite fit. He didn't even dress like Sherlock, favoring a faded pair of jeans and long sleeve tee shirt, with a pea coat to keep out the cold. Sherlock sneered at the specter of the man in his mind.

Peeking at Molly, Sherlock tried to push down the overwhelming possessiveness he felt towards her. His anger at the bloke flirting with her had clouded his mind and his deductions had been wrong. So what she wanted to pursue someone? _I don't want her. Not my area._

He fought the urge to put his head in his hands. It was becoming increasingly difficult to convince himself he was not interested in the small woman across from him.

She finished her coffee and stood, and Sherlock trailed along behind. The second they stepped out the door onto the street, she shivered violently. She didn't say a word however, just started walking towards the flat. Sherlock paused a moment and shrugged off his coat before swiftly catching up to her and wrapping her in it. She looked up at him, startled and confused. Sherlock stared down at her for a second, gazing first at her lips then into her eyes. Molly's breath hitched and he was unsure if his did the same.

Abruptly, he pulled back and took off speedily down the street calling over his shoulder to her. "Go back to the flat. I have something to do first." Molly shook off her daze and made to chase after him, then seemed to think better of it and turned towards 221B.

Sherlock raced down the streets, his breath visible in the air before him. It was evening now and he was getting quite cold, but was persistent his search. Finally, he found the shop he was looking for and entered, browsing a while before selecting a beautiful, warm grey coat in Molly's size. After a moment's thought, he also picked up a scarf that was almost identical to his own. He purchased them and had the salesperson box them up. Sherlock balked when the young woman suggested a bow though.

He hurried back to the flat, discovering his own coat draped across his chair and heard the running of the bath upstairs. He slipped soundlessly up to Molly's room and left the box on her bed before retreating to his own room for the night.


	7. Calling in the Cavalry

Sherlock stomped up the stairs to the flat, exhausted and hungry after three days in Cardiff for a case.

It had been fairly straightforward, most of his time had been waiting for the right moment to jump out and nab the surprisingly stupid drug cartel boss. (He was sure Mrs. Hudson had been better in her day.)

He was brimming with pride and couldn't wait to dazzle Molly with his brilliance (he WAS brilliant) only… only Molly wasn't actually in the flat.

Sherlock stopped and sniffed.

_Perfume. Molly's. But Molly doesn't ever use perfume unles_s... Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

A date.

Molly went on a date.

And she did it while he was out of town.

_Coffee guy._

He scaled the stairs to her room, two at a time in his rush, and opened the door to her room. Shopping bags were strewn all about the room, on her bed, on the floor, and price tags were scattered all over the place.

_Hmmm, concerned about this date, she bought new clothes for it. A lot of new clothes. She must have gone with someone, she would never spend this much money if she was shopping alone. She second guesses herself far too much._ He leaned over and picked up a light green, sleeveless, chiffon top and studied it. _Not her style either. So she asked someone for advice. About bloody time. Her fashion sense is atrocious._ He grinned, remembering about all the fruit adorned items of clothing that Molly owned.

Going back down to sit in his chair, he contemplated what to do. He could easily figure out where they had gone. Molly was an open book, and he knew there were few options she would be comfortable with for a first date.

Giving it a bit more thought, and checking the time, he decided that instead he would use the remaining period she was gone to gather some intelligence on a subject that he had to admit, he was quite lost on. Sweeping up his phone, he sent a quick text and ignored the subsequent responses.

Sherlock had just finished eating two sandwiches (which he wheedled Mrs. Hudson into making for him) and downing a large bottle of water when he heard John come through the front door and run up the stairs, shouting for him. The army doctor screeched to a halt as soon as he saw Sherlock standing in the kitchen and stared for a moment before closing his eyes and breathing out a long breath.

"Sherlock. Please tell me there is ACTUALLY an emergency and I didn't just leave my pregnant wife at home alone two hours after I got from being away for 3 whole days?"

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Of course there's an emergency. Sit down."

John sank into his chair in the living room and put his chin in his hand with a long-suffering sigh.

Stalking into the room to stand in front of his friend, Sherlock stated, "I need data."

"Ummm, ok?" John was thoroughly confused. Since when did Sherlock think that John knew more about a subject than he did?

Sherlock began to pace and speak at a pace that John vaguely held should not have been humanly possible. "Every time I see her speak to another man or smile at him or god forbid, try to flirt, my chest gets tight and I can't breathe and my stomach churns and I want to tear him apart with my bare hands. She doesn't smile at me like she used to, John, and I want her to smile at me and get me coffee and stutter when she sees me wear that purple shirt and-"

Sherlock took a breath and John jumped in. "Wait, are we talking about Molly?"

The consulting detective shot him his patented 'do keep up' stare and collapsed into the chair opposite John. "Of course, who else gets, well, got, me coffee?"

John Watson sat up very straight, very quickly, his sore muscles (the drug lord had not been keen on being arrested) complaining. "Sherlock? Do you fancy Molly?" Sherlock groaned and gave him the stare again.

John was flummoxed. "Ok, wait, this isn't for another case, is it? Because if you do that to Molly, I'll kill you myself and I'm pretty sure Greg will help."

"Of course this isn't for a case, John! Do you think I would do that to the woman who saved my life, literally, twice now?"

"Twice?"

Sherlock blushed.

He actually blushed.

Then, he cleared his throat. "When your wife," he waggled his eyebrows at his friend, "shot me, Molly appeared in my mind palace and told me what to do to stay alive. It isn't the first time either. She's there more and more." He paused and made eye contact. "She's becoming the voice in my head."

The doctor sat back, stunned. For Sherlock to say something like that, well that was serious. "Alright, so what do you need me for?"

Sherlock rubbed his face with his hands. "As much as I loathe admitting it, I really am at a loss as to how to proceed. Molly insists on being difficult and not catching any of the hints I give her. She even went on a-" he shuddered, "date tonight with some boring bloke she met at the coffee shop the other day."

"Yeah Mary told me. She took Molly shopping today to help her pick out clothes for it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh, well tell her that she did a good job. Molly's new clothes are leagues better than the ones she picks for herself."

John chuckled. "No fruit?"

"No fruit." Sherlock laughed outright before becoming solemn again. "Well, are you going to help me?"

John nodded yet again, eyeing his best friend. It was going to be a monumental task teaching Sherlock how to behave towards the woman he desired. This brought up another thought.

"Sherlock, ummm…"

Sherlock interrupted him there. "No John, despite what people may assume, I am not inexperienced. I haven't indulged in years but did you really think I could make it through my drug using days without experimenting?"

John pondered this and then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess not." He checked his watch. "Ok, I've got to be home within the hour so listen closely."


	8. Let the Games Begin

Sherlock lay on the couch in his dressing gown, fingers steepled and brow furrowed in concentration. John had given him a lot of new information to sort through and store for future reference. Admittedly, he **_was_** going to delete some of it because frankly, he didn't think Molly would like it if he changed too much. After all, she didn't fall in love with John, or someone remotely normal, she fell in love with Sherlock, even though it was a spectacularly bad idea.

Time slipped by and before he realized how late it was, the door downstairs opened and he heard Molly's laugh. His lips pressed into a hard line at the sound, not at all nervous or unsure.

_So she had a good time. Damn._

There was some chattering, which Sherlock attempted to eavesdrop on, but it was indistinct. All he could make out were two separate voices; Molly's sweet, soft tone and a lower pitched one which belonged to the man she had met at the café. Sherlock waited, his jaw tense as he fought the impulse to jump up, run downstairs, and punch coffee guy in the face for daring to show interest in **_his_** pathologist.

There was hushed moment, in which Sherlock sat bolt upright, barely venturing to think what was happening, then Molly said goodbye and the door closed with a discreet snap. He lay back down, resuming his thinking pose and listened to Molly's light footsteps getting steadily closer. She entered the room and yelped when she set eyes on his still form.

"Sherlock! You scared me! You should've said something."

"I wasn't aware I needed to announce my presence in my own flat." He responded, sounding a bit colder than he meant to and berated himself internally.

She gave him a baleful stare. "When did you get back?"

He sat up, mutely eyeing her with reproach and she bit her lip, guiltily looking away.

"I didn't know you were coming back today."

He resisted the compulsion to snap out an unkind retort and simply nodded, laying back down. She turned to head up the stairs to her room and he called out, "How was your date?"

She stopped dead in her tracks and took a breath deep before turning to him, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Fine."

He opened his eyes, taking in her expression and opened his mouth and—she abruptly turned and stomped up the stairs. Hearing the bath water running, Sherlock closed his eyes again, intending to go back into his thoughts but was interrupted by the ring of his phone. He rolled his eyes before picking it off the side table and peering at the display.

Sherlock froze.

**Call Blocked. **

He answered, breathing deeply, before quietly saying "Hello."

"Helloooo darlings! Have you been missing daddy?!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and sarcastically responded, "I just saw my father, thank you."

A laugh came from the phone. "And you, Molly?" Silence then the voice snarled. "Get Molly."

Sherlock flushed red, grateful no one could see his face. "She's in the bath."

A low growl sounded and the voice was pitched menacingly low. "Well get her out."

Sherlock sighed and sat up, pausing a moment before the voice growled out, "I'm waiting!" and Sherlock headed up the stairs and knocked on the door to the bathroom.

He heard a muffled groan of frustration and called out quietly, "Molly, I need to come in. It's him."

A gasp, then splashing water, footsteps, the click of the lock, more footsteps and another splash.

"Alright, come in."

Sherlock opened the door to the steamy bath and took in the sight of Molly, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, covered in bubbles from the shoulders, and suddenly, he had trouble remembering how to breathe. He crossed over to her and sat on the toilet lid, doing his best not to stare at her. He put the phone on speaker.

"Ok, she's here."

"Mols! So glad you could join the party!" the voice called out, half singing the words. She winced and her hand came up to grip the side of the bath, turning her knuckles white.

She and Sherlock eyed each other, wondering what exactly Moriarty, or whoever it was, had planned for them. "What do you want?" Her voice was subdued and a bit unsteady. Sherlock bit his lip to keep himself from looking at her, uncomfortable in such close proximity to her naked form, even if he couldn't see it.

"What do I want? Oh come on, Molly. You're hardly that stupid. **_Ordinary_**, yes. **_Angel_**, yes." Sherlock stiffened at the last word and Molly gave him a questioning glance. "But stupid, no. If you were stupid, I would've succeeded in killing Sherlock the first time around." Molly bit her lip, tears of apprehension welling up in her eyes. "But I didn't. Because I underestimated you Mols. But I never underestimated what you meant to Sherlock." There was an evil chuckle. "How does it feel by the way? Sherlock? How does it feel knowing that I had your little woman in ways you can only dream of? She's told you off, hasn't she? Sad."

Sherlock glanced briefly at Molly's stricken face, gritted his teeth and snapped out, "Again, you seem to fail to find a point."

"Wrong!" The voice snapped back. "Sherlock, you **_love_** to show off, don't you?" Sherlock kept silent. "Of course you do! You should. We're **_so_** much more brilliant than everyone else. Aren't we?" Pause. "I said, **AREN'T WE**?"

Sherlock and Molly both winced, the volume of the shout echoing in the small space.

"Yes." Sherlock felt odd, never before had he had a problem declaring his superiority to the rest of the human race but this felt wrong.

"Well! Aren't we modest?!" The voice sang out. "So Sherlock, let's put that brilliance to the test. I think you remember the drill. Puzzle, clue, high stakes, time limit. The whole shebang! And this time, you have a better assistant. Because let's be honest, John is loyal and, ugh, **_brave_** but Molly's got brains. She sees things that **_you_** don't. Including yourself." There was a moment of silence.

"Get ready, loves. Let's play murder."

The dial tone sounded and left Sherlock and Molly staring at each other in horror.


	9. A Little Carried Away

Sherlock was frozen in place, staring in distress at Molly who sat in the tepid bath water with an identical expression. How did their tormentor know the exact words that Sherlock had used at John and Mary's wedding? Obviously, they had been under surveillance for a long time. Months at least. Maybe ever since Sherlock reappeared in the world of the living. That was a terrifying thought.

They sat in silence, each lost in their thoughts, until Molly began to shiver in the cold bath. Sherlock roused himself from his contemplations and stood, reaching for a towel which he held out for Molly. She looked at him askance but he averted his eyes, so she stood, letting him wrap her in the fluffy white towel.

To her surprise, he pulled her close, enveloping her in a crushing hug. Molly's arms were trapped and her face was pressed into Sherlock's chest as he held her. Sherlock pulled away a little, to look down into Molly's face and reassure her that he could handle whatever their enemy could throw at them. Gazing into her eyes though, all cognitive ability fled and he suddenly crushed his lips to hers.

She let out a strangled squeal and went perfectly still. His tongue swept over her lower lip, seeking entrance and she opened for him after a beat, reciprocating the intoxicating kiss. He kissed her desperately, frantically, not stopping until necessity forced him to pull back.

Her eyes were closed, lips swollen and red, and she was panting softly. He could hear Mycroft in his head, saying in that infuriatingly calm voice, that caring was not an advantage but he pushed it away and forced himself to focus on Molly. He ran his index finger over one cheek and down to her chin, gripping it with the thumb and index finger to tilt her head up further. Her eyes opened and he was taken aback by the fire he saw there.

His breath caught and he lost himself in her gaze for a moment. Just as he made up his mind to continue, her cell phone rang startling them both. The ringtone was one that Sherlock hadn't heard before and he gave Molly a quizzical glance which made her bite her lip and look guiltily away_. _

_Ah, coffee guy._

"What is his name anyway?"

She cocked her head to the side and studied him before answering. "Daniel."

He didn't answer and, as was her habit when he made her nervous, she began to babble. "He's really nice. We went to the café I like and had hot chocolate and talked about books and cats, he likes cats, and he isn't grossed out by my job, he's a surgeon and-"

Sherlock put a finger over her lips, shushing her.

"I know I'm not very versed in this matter, but I'm pretty sure than talking about another man when one is trying to kiss you, is not good."

Molly blushed prettily, the pink traveling down her neck and chest, and Sherlock found himself wanting to see how far it went. This wasn't the time for that though. He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips and stepped back, letting her go.

"Besides, doesn't it bother him that you live with a single man who is unrelated to you and close in age who knows you better than just about anyone else?"

She looked away again. "Well, he, uh, he said that he doesn't really consider you a threat."

"What? Of course I'm a threat, how stupid could he be?"

Molly's head snapped up at that, one eyebrow raised and he quickly looked away, feeling exposed.

"I mean, I could be. If, if I wanted to that is."

He cleared his throat and wiped his sweaty palms on his trouser legs.

"Yeah ok, I'm going to go and let you get dressed. We need to go to see Mycroft and discuss our next move now that we have an idea what is going to happen."

Molly groaned. "Sherlock, I have to work tomorrow, can't you go? I need to sleep."

He raised a brow at her but she stood firm.

"Alright, I'll tell him to come here. Might be better anyway, then his people can help search the flat for bugs." _And remove his own, _Sherlock thought.

Molly nodded and Sherlock retreated downstairs to call his brother.

Not long after Molly dressed and appeared downstairs, there was the sound of footsteps and Mycroft appeared in the room. Molly, who by now could charm the pants off of him (though Mycroft didn't show it, Sherlock knew,) headed into the kitchen to fix a tray of tea and biscuits while the brothers talked strategy. As they spoke, some of Mycroft's agents, two men and one woman, went through the whole of the flat, removing tiny cameras and microphones. Another man busied himself implanting undetectable tracking chips in both Sherlock and Molly's phones. Mycroft lowered his voice so only Sherlock could hear.

"I do hope, dear brother, that your head is fully in the game."

Sherlock gave him a stare and snapped, "You know it is. I am always focused."

Mycroft sat back in his chair, the smug expression on his face saying everything for him.

"You might want to stop kissing Doctor Hooper then."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Leave her out of this."

"I highly doubt she will be left out of this, Sherlock."

With a sigh, Sherlock ran his hands through his hair.

"I know, I know. Up her security level, would you?"

Mycroft nodded and gave Molly a tiny smile as she entered with the tray. He immediately grabbed up a biscuit, and Sherlock grinned. _Some things never change. _

Molly headed up the stairs to bed and Sherlock caught himself watching her leave. He caught Mycroft's smirk and gave him an evil glare.

"So, is that all?"

"Yes, all we can do now is wait to see what game your friend comes up with for you."

Sherlock nodded tersely and Mycroft stood, motioning to his agents to exit. He snatched another biscuit off the tray and left after them. Sherlock watched him go then stood, heading to his bedroom. It had been about three days since the last time he slept so he decided now was as good a time as any.

He showered quickly and climbed into bed, the sheets cool against his flushed skin. His thoughts strayed to Molly, remembering the taste of her lips and the feel of her body pressed to his. He found himself envisioning what might have happened if her phone had not interrupted them and abruptly, he was hard and wanting. He rolled his eyes at his body and turned over; delving into his mind palace and digging up the most boring thing he could find to chase away the arousal.

Eventually, he fell asleep.


	10. The Game is Back On

"I think that is the most I have ever seen you eat at once, Sherlock." John eyed Sherlock's clean plate in amazement.

"Nonsense, John. What about after The Woman?" Sherlock winked at John who snorted and began coughing violently. Mary smirked and patted him on the back, none too gently as Molly looked on, laughing. (They both knew the story of how John had entered the flat, not long after the ill-fated flight of the dead, to find Sherlock consuming an entire three layer chocolate cake.)

The four sat on the outdoor patio of a small café not far from Bart's, eating a late lunch. Molly had managed to slip away for once, instead of braving the canteen. Of course, Sherlock had a lot to do with that. He refused to leave and let her work unless she agreed to meet up with them on her break. He had grinned triumphantly at John when he told him that he had asked her to lunch. The grin died though when John told him that he had technically not invited her, rather that he drove her insane until she was exasperated enough to agree and that bothering her to death wasn't exactly the best way to get her to do things with him. _So confusing. _

Sherlock was watching Molly smile, feeling something odd in his chest, when he caught Mary's smug grin out of the corner of his eye. He quickly looked away, a bit of red coloring his cheeks and cleared his throat.

"What time do you have to be back, Molly?"

She checked her phone for the time and jumped up, nearly upending the table in her haste.

"Oh gosh, I'm late! Sherlock, you made me late!"

"I didn't do anything. You were the one not watching the time. Besides, there are no bodies today so you'll just be stuck doing paperwork anyway. Boring."

Molly's face was stern. "Boring or not, it has to be done. And I have to do it." She grabbed up her purse and took off; calling over her shoulder that she'd see them all later.

John chuckled and leaned over to kiss Mary on the cheek. "I'd better get back to the clinic too. No chance of a case today, huh?" he inquired hopefully.

Sherlock shook his head glumly. Mary smiled at him and playfully poked John in the side.

"No playing detective today, love. It's back to work for you!" John chuckled and kissed her cheek again before strolling off in the direction of the clinic.

Sherlock was focusing on his coffee, deciding whether to return to the flat or pretend to need something from Bart's when Mary's sudden giggle startled him.

"So, when are you going to tell her?"

His brow furrowed in confusion as he looked up at her. "Tell what to whom, exactly?"

"Oh, Sherlock. I can read you like a book. You can't tell me that you were so adamant that Molly stay with you at Baker Street just for her protection." Sherlock opened his mouth to argue the point but Mary held up a hand, silencing him. "And don't think I didn't catch you mooning over her just now when she wasn't looking. If John wasn't so oblivious, he would've seen it too."

Sherlock colored slightly and glanced away, picking a pretend speck of dust from his coat. "Yes, well. I might enjoy her company. A bit."

Mary snorted. "A bit? You asked John for help wooing her! And as far as I can tell, you haven't gotten very far with it."

Sherlock blushed harder and cleared his throat, examining Mary a second before blurting out, "I kissed her."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Did you really?" At his nod, she asked, "And?"

"Her phone rang."

"Oooo, fail."

"Yes, quite."

They sat in silence for a minute before Mary leaned forward, looking Sherlock in the eyes and drew in a breath.

"Sherlock, you are a good man. No matter the image you project. I know that you are just trying to protect yourself when you drive everyone away. Let me give you some advice though. Don't drive this one away. Molly Hooper is the best thing that could ever happen to you. Even better than John, and that is saying something."

Sherlock gulped and nodded.

"I'll do my best." He got to his feet. "Come on, I'll take you home."

"Before or after you go to Bart's to bother Molly some more?" Mary laughed.

Sherlock gave her an offended look. "Before, of course. Can't have pregnant women in the morgue. Too many chemicals."

An hour later, Sherlock stood in the door of Molly's tiny office.

The pathologist was completely hidden by the ridiculously tall stacks of papers and books that covered her desk. Sherlock's mouth quirked up as he heard her muttering to herself as she read through a study on liver disease, looking for similarities between the study and an autopsy she had done the previous day.

"Molly?"

There was a muffled yelp of surprise and her head poked up over the stacks.

"Sherlock! What are you doing back here?" Before he could reply she hurried on. "Not that I mind or anything, I just… I mean, what do you need?"

He gazed at her a moment, observing her as her face flushed and her pupils dilated slightly. He turned and looked out into the morgue to hide his self-satisfied smirk and pointed at a freezer on the far side.

"Got any toes?"

"Yeah, there should be a couple in there. Help yourself."

Molly sat back down; chewing on her pencil as she resumed reading and Sherlock frowned. He crossed over and opened the freezer, thinking about how best to get her attention back on himself. Grabbing a jar labeled, "A. Thompson, fingers & toes," he heard a soft ping, indicating an incoming picture message.

He pulled out his phone and checked the message. On his screen appeared the image of a woman.

A very dead woman.

He checked the sender; **blocked**.

_So not Lestrade needing help with a case then. The first puzzle._ Sherlock felt giddy. _Finally! A problem to solve! _

"Molly!" he called out. "Get your things! We've got a case!"

Molly appeared with a confused expression on her face.

"What are you going on about, Sherlock? I'm working."

He strode over to her, holding his phone up too close to her face.

She reached up and moved his hand back a bit and a tremor went through him.

"That's a dead woman," Molly stated, matter-of-factly.

"Yes, I had noticed," he replied, not a bit sarcastically.

He peered at the display again.

"Come on, it looks like she is somewhere on the banks of the Thames. I've got to talk to Lestrade and see what he knows about this." He turned to walk out the door and belatedly realized that she hadn't moved. "Well?"

"Sherlock, I'm staying here. I can't just run out on my job. Besides, you'll need someone to autopsy that body eventually."

Sherlock pouted at her. _Come on, Molly. I want to be brilliant for you. Wait, what?_ He cocked his head to the side and studied her for a minute and she lowered her eyes, a faint pink coloring her cheeks. He grinned.

"Alright, I'll see you here in a couple hours." He swept out the doors of the morgue and headed off, firing messages off to John, Lestrade and Mycroft.

The game is back on.


	11. A Puzzle to Solve

Sherlock knelt on the cold ground, examining the even colder body of a young woman with his magnifying glass.

She was pretty, objectively speaking, and a mass of contradictions.

Lestrade, John, even Sherlock had assumed from first glance that she was one of the many homeless in the city. When he got to the scene though, Sherlock had done a double take. She was dressed in typical attire for a homeless person and she was messy but her nails were manicured and her skin was soft, the type of soft that came from expensive skin treatments. Her hair had been colored, and recently, as there were hardly any of the roots showing. There were faint traces of makeup too.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. _Not homeless. Pretending to be. Why? What was she hiding from?_

He glanced down at her face again, his brow furrowed. She was familiar but he couldn't think why.

John ambled over and looked down at her too.

"Cause of death?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor knelt on the other side of the woman and checked her out. The body was in near pristine condition as far as a visual examination went, with the exception of some stiffness in the neck.

"Hard to say without a more thorough examination." He peered at the woman's face for a minute. "Huh, that's funny."

Sherlock glanced up at John before returning his attention to the body. "I seem to recall you saying that crime scenes aren't funny."

John gave him an exasperated glare. "Not 'haha' funny, Sherlock. Funny as in odd."

"Well spit it out then."

Huffing out a sigh at his former roommate's rudeness, John answered, "She just looks like a woman from the papers, that's all."

"Ah!" Sherlock's face lit up and he rubbed his hands together. "For once, your inane society knowledge is useful." He stood and readjusted his scarf and coat, ignoring John's exaggerated eye roll.

"Okay, I'll try to take that as a compliment. Explanation, Sherlock?"

"But it's so obvious," Sherlock whined.

John beckoned Lestrade over then crossed his arms. "Humor me."

Sherlock shook his head at them. "Got some theories, need more data, assumptions are sloppy." He turned to Lestrade "Do you have a name?"

Greg shook his head, his lips pursed. "She had nothing on her. No id, no phone, nothing. We're checking the database now."

Sherlock spun on his heel, striding off, and called back to the DI, "Get the body to Bart's so Molly can examine it."

"Oi, where you off to?" Greg yelled back.

"Research!" was the response before he turned a corner and disappeared from their view.

Sherlock's fingers were busy folding up a 20 pound note as he strolled up to a rather filthy young girl. She sat on a bench, watching people pass by and held out a cup to those who deigned to stop and drop some change into it. He dropped down onto the bench next to her and she turned to him, giving him a wide smile that showcased her dirty teeth. The detective handed her the bill along with a picture of the dead woman. She grasped it, staining the corner with dirt, and examined it closely.

"What can you tell me about that one?" Sherlock leaned back against the backrest and watched the cars go by on the street.

The girl scratched her head a moment. "Not much, boss. Been seein''er 'round 'ere a bit. Not long tho'. Just showed up one day." She lowered her voice confidentially. "Been talk she ain't right tho'. She don't belong 'ere."

Sherlock rubbed his hands on his pants, cringing at the blatant abuse of the English language. "Obviously. Anything else?"

The urchin shook her head. "Naw, ain't nobody seen 'er in days, boss."

He stood. "Keep an ear out. You know where to find me." With a curt nod, he hailed a cab and climbed inside, giving orders to head to Bart's.

Molly had just finished scrubbing in when the doors slammed open and Sherlock strode in, looking like he owned the place, as usual. The petite pathologist gave him a sunny smile and for a moment, he forgot why he was there. He snapped out of it quickly though and cleared his throat.

"Ready to do the autopsy on our Jane Doe?"

"Of course. But, Sherlock," she paused and he huffed impatiently.

"Yes, Molly?"

Her whole demeanor changed and the timid little girl was replaced by a confident woman. "Do try to remember that I'm the professional here."

He looked offended and she held up a finger to silence him, surprisingly, it worked.

"No interruptions, no talking while I'm recording, don't pester me for explanations before I've finished and DON'T try to tell me you know what killed her before I figure it out."

Sherlock gulped and nodded. "Understood." _Where did this side of her come from?_

Molly turned and clicked the recorder on. "External visual exam, no signs of trauma, skin color normal, hmmm, swelling in the upper right triceps, consistent with vaccines…" she continued speaking, and Sherlock found himself zoning out, just watching her mouth move, her lips definitely were not too small.

"… Cullen's sign…"

He sat on an empty table and observed her, her tiny hands moving, wielding the scalpel with precision, her brow crinkled in concentration, the occasional chewing of her lip.

"…Apparent Waterhouse–Friderichsen syndrome causing organ failure and massive internal bleeding around almost all of the abdominal organs…"

_Maybe I could kiss her again. She won't want to call me her boyfriend if we begin a relationship, will she?_ His lip curled in disgust. _Such a childish way to refer to your significant other._

"…Severe inflammation of the meninges…"

_What could I call her? I doubt calling her my pathologist will fly._

"…Copious pus formed around the spinal cord and at the base of the brain…"

Sherlock jumped awake at the feel of someone shaking his arm.

"Sherlock, wake up. I'm finished."

He opened his eyes to see Molly staring down at him, suppressing an expression of amusement.

_I could wipe that smug look off her face so fast… No focus._

He sat up quickly, adjusting his clothes and rubbed his face. "Right, results?"

Molly handed him a folder. "Well, cause of death is untreated Bacterial Meningitis."

"Isn't that abnormal for someone in good health?"

"It certainly is." John appeared in Sherlock's field of vision from the direction of the door, balancing three cups of coffee. He handed one each to Molly and Sherlock and sipped from his own.

Molly accepted her cup and grinned at John, making Sherlock scowl and take too hasty a sip, scalding his mouth slightly. He winced as Molly continued.

"I found very high concentrations of Streptococcus pneumonia, the bacteria that caused it, in her blood. The protein levels were through the roof and the glucose was extremely low. Now, meningitis is caused by exchange of bodily fluids, and is spread through the blood stream."

"So she kissed someone who had it? But if her immune system was fine then she shouldn't have caught it, right?"

"Right. But I don't think that's how she got it."

"Oh, how then?" Sherlock had to admit to himself that hearing her speak about a subject she was so knowledgeable on was pretty sexy. _Focus, focus._

"She has an injection site on her arm that is very swollen still. Meaning it had to have been more so when she was still alive. It's a long shot but I think," Molly paused and took in a deep breath, obviously afraid Sherlock was going to shoot down her theory. "I think that someone injected her with a combination of live and virile bacteria to cause her to become ill."

As Sherlock thought about that, John jumped in. "But who would want to do that to a random homeless girl?"

"Oh, she wasn't homeless." Molly replied quickly. "She's far too well kept to be homeless."

John looked at her in confusion. "What do you mean? She was a mess."

Sherlock stood. "Once again, you see but do not observe, John. Her nails were manicured, her hair colored, her skin smelled of lotion."

John's mouth fell open. "So she was pretending? Why?"

"That's just what I intend to find out." He flipped the collar up on the Belstaff (taking no small amount of pleasure in hearing Molly's breath quicken) and stalked out of the morgue with John scurrying behind.


	12. Places to Go

Sherlock lay on the couch in his dressing gown with his fingers steepled and his eyes closed. John puttered about in the kitchen, making tea. He walked into the room and stood near Sherlock, staring at the pictures pinned to wall above the prone man.

"So what am I looking at here?" Sherlock didn't reply and John nudged him with his knee, causing Sherlock's eyes to snap open and an annoyed expression to cross his face.

"What, John? I'm busy." John looked down at the detective with a no nonsense glare and repeated his question. Sherlock waved vaguely at the photos. "Evidence."

"Obviously. A little better explanation, if you please."

Sherlock heaved a sigh that said 'why can't you figure this out for yourself?' and leapt to his feet, knocking John back and nearly spilling his tea. John snorted, annoyed, as Sherlock began pointing to photos.

"These are photos of the key players in this. Some are street cameras courtesy of Mycroft, the others are from members of the homeless network that Wiggins gathered for me. Ok this one is the dead girl six days ago. No signs of any illness. Therefore, when it did affect her, it killed her quickly which backs up Molly's theory of an injection. This one is the girl with her client…"

"Client?" John interrupted.

"Oh yes, John," Sherlock rubbed his hands together gleefully; "our victim was nowhere near a normal homeless girl. She was actually Marilyn, not her real name of course, a high class call girl in an exclusive contract with a high ranking politician."

John whistled out a long breath. "Well THAT is a turn out. Does Greg know?"

"Greg?" Sherlock questioned, distractedly.

John rolled his eyes. "Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Oh, right. Yes, I informed him earlier once Wiggins got a positive ID on her." He gestured dismissively. "I doubt the information will benefit him in any way though." John frowned. "So this one here is the politician. As you can see, or perhaps not you," another frown from the doctor, "but I can see from the lines and general puffiness of the face that he has been very upset recently. After checking into his personal life and eliminating everything else, the only possible cause for this distress is the loss of his paramour."

He gestured to another group of photos, showing what appeared to be the inside of a small but opulently decorated flat. "This is Marilyn's flat. Not much to see, except," he pointed to a corner, "here. There is a pile of items all originating from the same person. A certain former client of hers named Gareth Henderson. Now, according to everything we have found so far, he hasn't been a client of hers for a little more than two years now but he still sends her sentimental drabble every week, like clockwork. It all sits in this corner, collecting dust so she obviously doesn't care about him but he still wants her. She went into hiding recently when his attentions became more… forceful."

He turned away from the wall, neglecting to explain the other pictures to John, and took off his dressing gown, exchanging it for the Belstaff. "Well come along John, places to go, people to see."

Sherlock's eyes flitted around the very masculine room they occupied. His eyes landed on the slight young man before them and his lip curled in disgust.

Mr. Henderson was the epitome of a spoiled, rich kid who was well into his twenties and still lived on his parents' dime. His clothes were ridiculously expensive and purchased solely for that reason. They didn't flatter him at all. His face was rat- like, with sharp angles and a pointy nose and chin. Overall, he wasn't pleasant to look at and was even worse to listen too. Basically, Sherlock thought he was a pompous arse and that was coming from the king of them. He had already deduced that the man didn't have the spine to murder anyone himself but was still deciding if he was depraved enough to hire someone to do it.

"Tell me about your relationship with Miss Marilyn. Be brief."

Gareth frowned. "She won't answer my calls."

"How long has it been since she answered your calls?"

"19 months, 4 days." He answered promptly, making John whistle under his breath.

"Did you ever consider that she might not want to speak to you?" John asked incredulously, getting a blank stare from the other man.

"Of course not. I'm the best thing that ever happened to that bitch. It's that bastard she went to. I know it's him! She'd come crawling back to me if he ever left her."

Sherlock knew it was a bit not good, but he couldn't resist quipping, "Well, she's dead now so doesn't look like she'll be coming back anytime soon."

Henderson stared at Sherlock, his face turning an unattractive shade of red. "Liar! You're just saying that to get me to leave her alone! Well it isn't going to work!" He got to his feet and pointed to the door. "Get out now!" John and Sherlock obliged him.

On the sidewalk, John turned to Sherlock. "Ok, I'll call Lestrade and tell him we've found the culprit and…" Sherlock shot him a disbelieving look and he trailed off. "What? Isn't he the killer?"

Sherlock snorted and shook his head. "Hardly. He wanted her back, however misguidedly, but not to eliminate her."

John was confounded. "Ok, so what now?"

"Now we go find suspect number two."


	13. And People to See

After a short cab ride, John found himself staring down a large black door with a brass knocker in an extremely exclusive neighborhood. Sherlock pounded on the door again and after a moment, a plump little woman opened.

"Yes, may I help you?"

Sherlock turned on his most charming smile and replied, "Yes, we have an appointment with Mrs. Audrey Miller."

The door opened wider and the woman smiled at them. "Please come in. She's been expecting you."

The pair entered and the housekeeper motioned to a couple of chairs in the adjoining sitting room.

"Please, have seat. I'll just tell her you're here."

John waited until she exited and turned to Sherlock, asking in a low voice, "Will you tell me what we are doing here now? Who is this woman we are meeting?" Sherlock was about to reply when a stunningly beautiful woman glided into the room.

She was tall and slender, with dark hair and brown eyes which Sherlock noticed were red and puffy from crying though makeup had been carefully applied to cover that fact. John, ever the gentleman, snapped to attention and stood as soon as she entered. He was surprised to see Sherlock do the same.

"Mrs. Miller, so good of you to see us on such short notice." Sherlock smiled winningly as he took her hand. "May I introduce my partner? Doctor John Watson. John, this is Mrs. Audrey Miller. Wife of Jackson Miller, parliament member."

John's eyes widened as he put two and two together then shook hands with the woman and she motioned for them to sit, which they did.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers while giving her an analytical look. "You are aware of your husband's dalliances, are you not?"

Audrey stiffened and gave Sherlock a cold glare. "That is none of your concern, Mr. Holmes."

"Actually, it is my concern. Your husband's lover was found murdered yesterday on the banks of the Thames."

The woman's face paled and her mouth fell open in true disbelief, which Sherlock took note of. "What?! Are you sure?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John smother an amused grin as he replied a bit cheekily, "It's hard to fake a dead body, Mrs. Miller." John coughed to hide his snort. _Oh the irony._

She nodded mutely, obviously still processing the information. "Well, uhm, why come to me?"

"Spouse would usually be the first suspect in a case like this," Sherlock stated, eliciting a strangled gasp from the woman, "luckily for you, I know you didn't do it." She stared at him wide eyed and he rolled his eyes.

"You have been petitioning your husband for a divorce for over a year now. Why would you be jealous enough to kill his lover if you don't want to be with him yourself?"

She gasped again. "How did you know that? No one knows. Jackson is terrified it would ruin his career if we were to separate."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "I won't try to explain to you, let it suffice to say that I know and move on. Your husband won't give you a divorce even though neither of you really wishes to stay married. Obviously, he is worried of the effect the news of his separation will have on his career. Also, having observed your husband, he appears to have genuinely cared for his dead lover, therefore, he wouldn't have killed her, even to keep news of his exploits out of the press. Now, what I really want to know is this; where does your lover come into play in all of this?"

Audrey's eyes went as round as saucers and tears welled up. John sat looking back and forth between Sherlock and Mrs. Miller helplessly and with a bit of confusion, not having had the whole story ahead of time.

Sherlock watched the woman's face as it crumpled a bit and he raised a brow. "Stormy waters threatening to sink the ship?"

_Oh that's a good one, I'll have to remember that to tell Molly. She thinks I'm awful with metaphors… Focus, Holmes!_

She nodded, her lip quivering. "I haven't heard from him in five days. We've never gone this long without speaking before."

Sherlock and John exchanged a knowing glance. Molly had given them an estimate of how long from the time of injection to the time of death was. She guessed anywhere from four to six days, landing the disappearance of Mrs. Miller's lover directly in that time span.

_What do we say about coincidences? _Sherlock heard Mycroft's voice echoing through his head. _The universe is rarely so lazy._

"Is there a reason he hasn't contacted you?" She shook her head.

"I don't know. He… he was always telling me I should be more forceful with Jackson about our divorce but I couldn't do it. Understand, Jackson and I get along very well. He's probably my best friend. But I don't love him and I know he doesn't love me so I thought we'd be better off apart. He's got his career to think of though and I would hate to ruin things for him so I just sort of let it drop. But Seb, he was always asking if I had done anything more about it. He really wanted me to be his." Her voice caught at the end and John worried she would start to cry.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in contemplation, then stood, with John and Audrey following suit. "If he contacts you, let me know." He handed her a card and promptly strode out of the room and through the front door to the street.

"Something about this isn't right, John. I'm missing something. Why would he disappear? Granted, he didn't accomplish his ultimate goal but there was no need to run off. No one would suspect him of murdering the woman who his lover's husband is cheating on her with." John just shrugged and let Sherlock talk to himself.

A key turned in the downstairs door and Molly came trudging up to 221B. Sherlock's mouth quirked up as he took in the sight of her in the new coat he had given her.

_She looks exhausted, must have been several postmortems to complete today._

"Hi boys." She dropped her bag to the floor, shrugged out of her coat and scarf, and toed off her black boots.

"Hey Molly." John gave her a warm smile and hug. "Tea?" She shook her head, smiling.

Sherlock frowned and rolled over but warmed a little when Molly pressed a small kiss to his forehead. "Hello Molly." He tried not to look so pleased with John still hanging about.

"So, how goes the case?" Molly questioned as she went to the refrigerator, gathering up a can of coke and some snacks, intending to take a hot bath.

"I've hit a roadblock." Sherlock moaned in frustration. "The lover has disappeared and I can't see a reason why."

John started to explain the situation to the pathologist, but Molly cut him off.

"Oh, he's been sending me text updates all day." Molly blushed prettily, giving the impression that updates weren't the only thing Sherlock had sent her.

John was the picture of surprise. "Oh, ok then."

Molly stopped by the couch on her way upstairs and pursed her lips pensively while staring at the pictures on the wall. "Maybe he knew you would figure out it was him and he bolted."

"How could he possibly know I would…?" Sherlock sat bolt upright. "Of course! The consulting detective! Fix my problem, Jim. Give me something to get rid of my lover's husband, Jim."

Molly's eyes had gone wide with understanding and John had sucked in a deep breath and tucked his hands in his pockets to hide the shake that began every time he thought about Moriarty.

Sherlock opened his laptop and logged onto his website, quickly typing a message.

**THE WIFE'S LOVER, BY THE THAMES, WITH AN INJECTION OF LIVE AND VIRULENT PNEUMOCOCCI**

There was a ping from his phone and he picked it up, reading aloud.

"Well done, my lovelies. Talk to you soon."


	14. Your Friendly Neighborhood Villain

The next day, Molly and Sherlock were lounging around in the living room.

Molly had changed out of her work clothes into some rather flattering jeans and a flowy light blue top, one of her purchases from when she had shopped with Mary. Sherlock hadn't taken off his dressing gown all day.

She had her nose in a novel, a very beat up copy of Pride and Prejudice, to be exact, and he was yelling at the telly, something about how neither man was the father. He caught her smothering a grin out of the corner of his eye and smiled.

It was nice to just sit there and spend time with her. Not that he would ever admit it, but he was actually enjoying himself without a case to occupy him. Just being near Molly made him happy. It was a weird feeling and one that Sherlock hadn't had the pleasure of feeling in quite a while.

The moment wasn't to last though.

Sherlock's phone rang and he absent mindedly reached for it, not checking the number before answering.

"Holmes."

"Well **_hello_** handsome!" The voice sang out. "Just your friendly neighborhood villain checking in!"

He immediately shut off the telly and put it on speaker so Molly could hear. She had paled and lowered her book when she realized who it was.

"What now?" Sherlock asked tensely. "Just wanted to congratulate you two on a case well solved. I told you that Mols would be a bigger help than your little playmate John. He might be able to shoot people for you but he certainly can't autopsy a body, can he? **_He_** doesn't keep you alive when you get shot, either." Molly gave a perplexed look to Sherlock who blushed a bit, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Mycroft's men removed your bugs."

"Not before I heard that **_heartwarming_** conversation." Sherlock pursed his lips in annoyance while Molly stared at him in confusion.

"So Sherlock, tell me, did you figure it out?"

"I already told you. It was the lover."

"Of course it was. And...?"

"Let me guess, the great consulting criminal supplied the injection. Didn't know you were involved in the biochemical field."

There was a moment of silence and then hysterical laughter. Molly and Sherlock stared at each other, completely thrown off by the giggling coming from the phone.

Once under control, the voice resumed. "Oh Sherlock, you missed the whole point. I guess I was a bit early with my congratulations."

"You gave it to him, you had to." Molly broke in, eliciting a sharp head shake from Sherlock which silenced her.

"Don't be silly,**_ I_** seduced the wife." The pieces fell into place and a look of understanding crossed Sherlock's face. "Isn't that what you did to that other girl? Jeanine?"

Sherlock winced, casting a glance at Molly who seemed to be in shock.

"You used her to get to someone else. You didn't care about her at all. Just like this. Just like I that woman to get to her husband."

"But you didn't get to Jackson."

You could almost hear the shrug over the phone. "Ah well, things don't always go according to plan."

"Obviously," Sherlock bit out, sarcastically.

"This is just like when we used Molly to get to you, Sherlock. Are **_you_** using her now to get to **_me_**?" Molly looked up at that, watching Sherlock's face carefully. He ignored the question and instead focused on one little word.

"We?"

There was a pause and the voice said, "Goodbye darlings. Talk to you soon."

Sherlock slowly put his phone down and glanced over to Molly who gave him a small smile.

"Well, that could've been worse."

He looked at her like she was crazy before standing and crossing the room to pick up his coat. He put it on and began tying his scarf around his neck while Molly watched.

"Sherlock? What did they mean, I kept you alive when you got shot?" Molly was biting her lip nervously.

Sherlock paused in the middle of putting on his gloves and stared at her, debating on whether to tell her the truth or not. He decided to do it.

"When I was dying, I saw you. You were telling me how to survive." The vulnerable look that he had the night he told her she counted was on his face. "I wouldn't be here now if it wasn't for you."

They gazed at each other a moment before she looked away, blushing from the intensity of his stare.

"Come on, Molly. We need to pay another visit to Mrs. Miller."

Molly snatched up her coat, grateful for the change of subject, and put it on before asking, "Why do we need to see her?"

"Do you recognize this man, Mrs. Miller?"

Audrey peered at the display of Sherlock's phone which held a likeness of Moriarty on the screen.

"No… I think I've seen him before but definitely not someone I know. Maybe on the telly?"

Sherlock frowned. "Tell me what your former lover looks like."

"Um, he has dark hair with some grey in it. Light skin, gorgeous grey eyes."

"Any distinguishing features?" he snapped and Molly gave him a stern look.

Mrs. Miller paused. "Yes, he has a scar across the left side of his face and neck."

Molly snapped to attention, raising a brow at Sherlock. "Has he always had the scar?"

"No, no, it's pretty new. He said he had an accident on his bike."

"When was this?" Sherlock took over the questioning again, giving Molly a quelling glance.

"Umm," she searched her thoughts. "Maybe six weeks ago? Why? Is that important?"

Sherlock ignored her question. "Alright, thank you." He stood and swept towards the door, a bewildered Molly, following behind.

"Is that it?" Molly questioned as the door closed behind them and Sherlock held up his arm to catch them a cab.

"What do you mean, is that it? Now we know that the lover is the same man who tried to kill you and not Moriarty. And he said 'we' used you to get to me so it is definitely someone you have seen before."

Molly seemed to ponder this for a moment before suddenly shrieking out, "Oh my gosh! What time is it?!"

Sherlock gave her a puzzled glance but replied, "Almost eight, why?"

"I have to get home and change! I have a date tonight!" Molly yelped as she jumped into the cab, bumping her head.

Sherlock's happiness at her calling Baker Street home was squashed by the following sentence. He rode all of the way home in a sullen silence.


	15. Advice

John grinned at Sherlock's disgruntled expression.

They were sitting in John and Mary's cozy little sitting room by a roaring fire with Sherlock sprawled out on the couch across from John, in his armchair. Mary was on the chaise lounge that she had tricked Sherlock into buying for her when her belly had gotten too big to be comfortable in any position except a reclined one, covered in a cozy cream colored throw.

Sherlock was in mid-sulk.

Molly was out on her date with Daniel.

She had run up the stairs after they had returned from interviewing Mrs. Miller. Sherlock listened to her frantic footsteps as she dashed back and forth, getting ready to go. His mouth was set in a hard line when she appeared in the living room, pulling on a shoe.

"See ya later, Sherlock. Don't wait up for me! Not that you would anyway but…" she called out breathlessly, preparing to run down the stairs to the door.

"I hope you have a good reason to be going on a date with Daniel, Molly." He pouted.

She stopped dead and her face took on a bewildered expression. "What do you mean? I'm dating him."

"And you kissed me." Sherlock raised a brow at her.

She flushed and suddenly became very interested in her toes.

"Ummm, no, you actually uh, you actually kissed me, Sherlock. And besides, um, it was just a one off, right? Right."

She turned to go, grabbing up her coat and leaving a stunned and highly annoyed Sherlock paralyzed in his chair.

A half hour later, Sherlock was pounding on the Watsons' door and brushing in past John. He collapsed on the couch and gave a long-suffering sigh. Mary giggled and he narrowed his eyes at her.

"You already know."

She nodded, suppressing her mirth. "Molly told me she had plans for the night." She grinned mischievously. "I thought you'd be here ten minutes ago though." She added as an afterthought.

John ambled in, juggling tea for each of them, and passed out the cups.

"I don't understand." Sherlock moaned and sat up to take his cup, plunking it down on the coffee table without even taking a sip.

"That might be the first time I've heard you say that." John cut in and Sherlock shot him an angry glare before continuing, speaking more to Mary than the doctor.

"Seriously though, I kissed her and everything and she still…"

"Wait, you kissed her?! Why didn't I **_know_** this?" John jumped in again.

Sherlock glared at him again.

"Ok shutting up now." He held his hands up in mock surrender.

"As I was saying before John so **_rudely_** interrupted me for the second time," John shook his head, "I kissed her and everything and she still insists on going out with that idiot. She said that our kiss was a 'one off.' What does that even mean?!" he complained.

Mary sighed and rubbed her temples, staring up at the ceiling as if asking for patience from God. "Basically, Sherlock, she thinks that you didn't mean it."

"Well that's just ridiculous. Why would I kiss her if I didn't mean it?" Sherlock responded indignantly.

"You kissed Jeanine." John reminded him, none too gently. The army doctor was still trying to scrub that sight from his brain.

"Oh. Right." Sherlock folded his hands together and rubbed his fingers across his lips. "Not good?"

Man and wife shook their head simultaneously.

"You've been such an arse to her for so long, it doesn't even enter into her head that you could be seriously pursuing her." John explained, speaking slowly, as if to a child. "You have to show her that you are committed to her." He stopped and glanced sharply at the pouting detective. "You are serious about this, aren't you? This isn't just a passing phase?"

"People get into relationships that don't last all the time, John. Do you think that they think it's a 'passing phase'?" he questioned, with no small amount of sarcasm. "But no, I don't think it is," he hastily added when he saw John's hand clench. He had no wish to be punched again. One bloody nose from the soldier was enough.

"It better not be. Molly is far too good for you. You're just lucky that she's crazy enough to want you." John replied.

"Or she did." Mary's eyes glowed impishly. "She **_is_** out on a date with another man right now. She might have moved on."

"Oh **_please_**." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We all saw what happened the last time she '**_moved on_**.' She found someone as similar to me as she could."

Mary nodded her agreement. "True, but from what I've seen, Daniel isn't at all like Meat Dagger. He looks nothing like you and he's actually quite bright. He's a surgeon."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. "I heard." He sighed, putting his head into his hands. "This is far too difficult." His head shot back up after a second with an expression of disgust on his face. "And she's on a **_date_**." He spat out the last word venomously. "I should go find them and…"

"No!" yelled John at the same time that Mary screamed, "Absolutely not!"

Sherlock jumped at the sudden loud noise. "What? Why shouldn't I? We all know that Molly actually fancies me. Isn't it better to nip this other thing in the bud?"

John gave a disbelieving snort and stared at Sherlock. "No, no Sherlock. That is **_not_** better. If Molly ends her relationship with Daniel-"

"Relationship? They have a relationship already?!" Sherlock interrupted, a brow raised.

John sighed. "You know what I mean. But if it ends, it needs to be Molly's choice. Not because you interfered. If you try to leave right now, I will knock you out and tie you up."

"Or I could just shoot him again." Mary quipped, biting back a laugh.

Sherlock put his hands up in surrender. "Alright, so what do I do?"

Mary sighed and turned over. "You keep trying of course."

Sherlock groaned and lay back down, curling up. "You are no help at all."


	16. New Tactics

It was just past midnight when the key turned in the door.

Sherlock was seated at the kitchen table, peering at a slide through his microscope. He feigned indifference as he listened to Molly, who thought she was being oh so quiet, tiptoeing into the flat. He leaned back in his chair, carding his hands through his hair.

Unable to keep his jealousy to himself, he called out, "Isn't it a bit late to be stomping around loud enough to wake the dead and Mrs. Hudson?"

The footsteps ceased, and then started up again, no longer tiptoeing. In fact, they were dangerously close to the stomping he'd accused her of a moment ago.

Molly appeared in the entry to the kitchen, hands on her hips and fury on her face. "Last time I checked, you were not my parent. You're just my flat mate and you have no control over what I do or when I get home."

Sherlock flinched at her tirade but recovered quickly. _'Just a flat mate' my arse._

"Really, Molly? How long are you going to keep pretending that you have gotten over your feelings for me? Everyone knows that isn't true."

Molly shook her head emphatically. "I am! I'm with Daniel now and there's nothing you can do about it!"

Sherlock rose from his chair at that, and strode over to the pathologist, towering over her intimidatingly. Molly shrank a bit, but held her ground, her jaw set. He scowled at her and grabbed her upper arms, holding her tightly. Her eyes widened and her pupils dilated (from fear or arousal he didn't know for sure) as he observed her.

"Watch me."

With that, he bent down and pressed a searing kiss to her lips. She stiffened as their lips met but he didn't stop and suddenly she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him to her as they kissed.

Abruptly, she pulled back with furious tears in her eyes, and slapped him across the face.

"How dare you?!"

He turned slowly to look at her, one hand holding his cheek.

"Sherlock, stop acting like a child that has had his toy taken away! You're just jealous that I'm not pining over you anymore. You don't actually want me; you just want me to be miserable!" Molly all but screamed.

She turned on her heel and swept past him, sprinting up the stairs to her room and slamming the door. Sherlock listened to her leave, frozen in his spot in the kitchen.

There was no doubt in his mind that Molly still loved him but he couldn't understand why she refused to admit it. _What is she so terrified of?_ She had reciprocated his kiss with the same passion that he had felt but then she pulled away.

Sherlock stomped into his room and threw himself on the bed, musing over the problem of his pathologist. _How can I show her that I want her? Molly, why are you being so difficult?_ After coming to the conclusion that he was going to have to change his methods of wooing her, _(because let's be honest, they just aren't working,)_ he finally fell into a fitful sleep, filled with dreams of reaching for Molly, only to grasp thin air.

The next morning, Sherlock was up early doing research on his laptop. He checked the time. Molly would sleep for a while yet; _she doesn't work today or tomorrow._

He grabbed up his coat, pulling it on as he clattered down the stairs and rapped loudly on the downstairs flat.

After a moment, Mrs. Hudson opened the door and Sherlock brushed past her into her flat, his hands clasped behind his back. He focused on the woman, who looked positively bewildered, with a wide grin that said 'I need something and you are going to help me.'

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. I trust you aren't busy? I need you to accompany me to the shops."

She stared at him in confusion and he rolled his eyes.

"I need to procure breakfast food items."

Mrs. Hudson's expression ranged from pure disbelief at his wanting to buy food, to sudden understanding. She positively beamed as she embraced Sherlock and scurried to put on her coat and scarf.

"Oh my, Sherlock! It's about time you made a move on that sweet girl! I'm surprised you haven't shagged her silly yet."

Sherlock feigned a shocked look.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. You know I was a dancer. I know what that look in your eyes means when you see her. You can't fool me, William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

He grimaced at the use of his full name but politely held the door for his landlady as they exited the flat to the shops.

They returned a short while later, his arms laden with groceries. They snuck into the upstairs flat and began preparing a lavish breakfast of eggs, bacon, scones and jam.

Or rather, Mrs. Hudson began preparing the food.

Sherlock set the table for two and made coffee, cooking not being one of his strong suits.

Not two minutes after Mrs. Hudson had disappeared back down to her flat, leaving Sherlock to himself; Molly appeared in the doorway, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Sherlock? What is this?"

He turned to face her, casually leaning against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hands.

"It's breakfast, Molly. What does it look like?" He smirked and filled a cup for her, adding just the amount of milk and sugar that he knew she liked, and held it out to her. Her eyes narrowed warily and he couldn't help a chuckle.

"Come on, Molly. I don't repeat myself and I already drugged John using coffee. Well actually, sugar."

She smiled and crossed over to him and took the cup, taking a grateful sip.

"So, what is all this for?" she waved vaguely in the direction of the table.

He cleared his throat nervously. "Well, I guess it's a bit of an apology for last night."

She elected not to speak, merely giving a curt nod as she sank down into one of the chairs. Sherlock sat across from her and they silently served themselves.

Sherlock watched as Molly ate silently, and picked at his plate. He looked up just in time to catch Molly's grin.

"What's so funny?"

She shook her head, try and failing to suppress her laugh.

"What Molly?" he inquired again.

"Did you wake Mrs. Hudson up just to fix breakfast?" she choked out, in the midst of her laughing fit.

He looked sheepishly down at his half full plate and moved the food around a bit.

"Maybe."

Molly laughed even harder at his confession and soon, he joined in. They sat there, grinning at each other like fools before Molly averted her gaze self-consciously and played with a piece of her hair.

"Well, umm, I better clear this." Sherlock stood and began putting the dishes in the sink.

He felt a hand on his arm and turned his head to look down at her.

"I'll wash, you dry?" Molly asked, biting her lip nervously.

He nodded; gulping down the feeling her hand on his body gave him. They worked in silence, Sherlock once again struck by how well they functioned together. In fact, he was sure he was better with her than by himself and he had never said that about anyone, even John.

They finished the dishes and Sherlock turned to Molly, tucking a stray bit of hair behind her ear. She blushed prettily and leaned into his touch a little before stepping away.

"So… yeah, well thanks Sherlock. And you too, Mrs. Hudson."

The older woman's head poked around the door, much to Sherlock's annoyance.

"Oh you're welcome dearie. It was his idea though."

Molly nodded and shyly smiled at Sherlock. "I know." She rubbed her hands together and shuffled nervously towards the other room. "Yes, well, I better get changed. I have some errands to run today." She left the room and Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a 'thumbs up' and winked before heading back downstairs.


	17. Sentiments and Shots

That evening, Molly came down the stairs, and tossed a "Hi Sherlock, bye Sherlock" carelessly in his direction. He was sprawled out in his chair, legs hanging over one arm of the seat. He looked over his shoulder at her, doing a double take at her flirty dress and ballet flats. Checking the clock, he saw that it was half past seven.

He pursed his lips and directed his annoyed glare at his computer screen. "Another date?" He didn't remember her mentioning one and he didn't smell any perfume when she entered the room as he usually would if she was going out with Daniel.

She shook her head while shrugging on her coat and tying her scarf. "No, not tonight."

"What then? You are dressed for a pub." He interrogated, turning to face her, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Well, yes, John and Greg and I are going to one just down the street. We used to go together all the time but it's been a while."

Sherlock frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion and hurt. "And I'm not invited?"

She paused, a glove halfway on and gave him a dubious glance.

"We didn't think you'd want to go. And anyway, John said you vowed to never drink again after his stag night." She cast him a wry smile, telling him that she knew exactly how that night had turned out.

Unable to resist a challenge and not exactly liking the idea of a drunken Molly with the detective inspector, he narrowed his eyes and stood, abandoning his laptop.

"I think I will go. Can't have you stumbling home by yourself late at night." He crossed over to her and began pulling on his own coat.

"I wouldn't be alone!" she protested. "Greg would bring me home… Or John." She added hastily at the positively violent expression on Sherlock's face when she mentioned Lestrade.

He shook his head and she sighed, resigned, throwing her hands up in the air.

"Fine, whatever. But if you ruin our night, I'm going to kill you. And it won't be fake this time."

He make a face at her no nonsense tone, but nodded his acceptance of her terms, then cocked his head to the side, his eyes focusing on her with a calculating look.

"Wait, I'll be right back." He took his coat back off and went to his room, speedily changing his clothes to something he knew she approved of.

He returned a few ticks later and was rewarded with a slight color in her cheeks before she turned away. He slipped his coat on and trailed behind her.

They walked to the pub, as it was only a few blocks from Baker Street.

Upon entering, they found the other two participants already there and elbows deep in a pint. Both men grinned at them, John winking at Sherlock. Greg nodded at him but looked a bit disappointed he was there.

_Not making a move on my pathologist tonight, detective inspector._

Molly beamed at the two men and they pushed a beer towards her as she slipped into the booth in the seat across from them. Sherlock was left to get his own beer.

"Sorry mate." John clapped him on the shoulder when he got back from the bar. "Would've gotten you a pint if we knew you were coming."

Lestrade nodded his agreement. "What's got you out tonight, Sherlock? Not your usual haunt."

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, his eyes darting to Molly. "Even I need fresh air sometimes."

Molly threw him a cynical glance but proceeded to basically ignore him, (annoying Sherlock to the extreme,) and chat animatedly with the other two men. Sherlock sipped his beer, not paying attention to the conversation.

_How did I miss that this was going on? Because you never had a doubt that Molly was yours, idiot. Now that she has all sorts of men interested in her, it has become important. Just like that Christmas party. John and Greg appreciated her outfit and you just HAD to get jealous and make her feel bad._ He really regretted that night.

He subtly watched the pathologist out of the corner of his eye. The dress she wore was one of her newer purchases and flattered her body shape. It was a chiffon number; the cut emphasizing her small chest with a seam below the bust and flaring down to just above her knee. The color, a deep jade green, suited her as well, bringing out the subtle reddish hues in her hair. Sherlock made a mental note to thank Mary again for her influence of Molly's wardrobe.

He came out of his thoughts as Lestrade asked her about Daniel and she blushed, saying that it was going well, but glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of her eye as she said it.

Greg mirrored Sherlock's expression of part disappointment and part annoyance.

Molly began to elaborate, as she was wont to do, causing Sherlock to slyly move his hand to brush against her thigh. She jumped, startled, and he smiled, knowingly.

"You ok, Molly?" John asked, furrowing his brow distrustfully at Sherlock who regarded him with an innocent expression.

Molly smiled a sweet smile and assured him that she was fine, while artfully stomping on Sherlock's foot. He grimaced in pain but quickly smoothed his face before the other men could see. Noticing that they were all getting to the bottom of their glasses, he got to his feet and headed to the bar. John joined him, and he turned to watch Molly and Greg while they waited for service.

"So, why are you really here, Sherlock?" Sherlock gave him his patented 'don't be stupid' stare and John chuckled. "Uh huh, I knew it. You didn't want Molly alone with Greg."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. "You know as well as I do that he wants her."

John shook his head, still laughing. "That isn't a crime, you know. You do too. And you don't have any more claim over her than anyone else." He grinned. "Geez, her pheromones must be working overtime."

Sherlock gave him a look with his brow raised, and John laughed outright.

"Ok, whatever but you need to loosen up. We're getting shots too."

Sherlock made to protest but suddenly a light bulb lit up in his brain.

"John, you gave me shots the night of your stag do!" He pointed an accusing finger in his best friend's face.

John smiled so wide, it practically split his face in half. "Sure did!"

Sherlock sighed dramatically (and mostly for show) and grabbed up the pints, John following close behind with four shots. He plunked the beers down on the table and took the offered shot, handing one to Molly who protested halfheartedly.

"Ugh, you guys do this every time!"

Greg smirked. "Yeah and you drink it every time, too!"

Sherlock scowled at Lestrade who studiously ignored him, bestowing a cheesy grin on the pathologist.

She laughed and lifted her shot glass into the air, the others following suit and they all threw them back, making faces as the liquor burned their throats.

"Oh, I'm getting too old for this," John coughed, the liquor making his voice thick and scratchy.

Molly nodded her assent, coughing slightly as well, as Greg eyed his empty glass with distaste.

"Why do we do this every time? It's always awful," he groaned.

Molly giggled. "It's only terrible because John always orders cheap liquor!" She stuck her tongue out at the doctor playfully.

"Oi, that's true, mate!" Greg joined in on her teasing.

"Hey, hey, no ganging up on me!" John lifted his hands up in surrender. "Greg, you're supposed to be on my side!"

Sherlock watched the exchange quietly, sipping on his beer. He resented the familiarity the three had with each other and that he had never been included in these nights. They only knew each through him, yet they were fine with purposefully leaving him out. It hurt a bit.

_You're getting sentimental in your old age._ Sherlock mentally swatted away the image of Mycroft. _Get stuffed, Myc._

Finally having had enough of Lestrade's attempts at flirting with a tipsy Molly, Sherlock piped up with a "Maybe if you had brought your wife with you instead of leaving her at home, your marriage wouldn't have dissolved," aimed at the detective inspector.

The trio turned to glare at him and John groaned, putting his head in his hands. "You see, Sherlock? This is why we never invited you. Don't get me wrong, you're my best friend, but you really are a buzz kill sometimes, mate."

The other two nodded their agreement and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Molly, silently reproachful for her concurrence and for not putting Greg in his place. She averted her gaze, glancing around the pub at the other patrons.

Sherlock picked up his glass, still almost half full, and drained it, kicking John under the table while he was at it.

"Alright, no buzz kill then."

The two men stared at him and he rolled his eyes.

"I promised I wouldn't ruin the night." He shrugged and darted his gaze to Molly who flushed bright red. Sherlock noted Lestrade's frown and quick gulp of beer with amusement.

_Ha, take that._

A half hour passed, the quartet getting more intoxicated by the minute.

Sherlock was definitely feeling the effects of the alcohol and the logical portion of his brain knew he should stop drinking but he ignored it.

Molly began to giggle at everything the men said, funny or not. Sherlock grinned to himself. _Of course, she would be a happy drunk. She's always cheerful. _

Sherlock was subtly scooting closer to her a bit at a time, until their arms were brushing with every movement. Greg and John got up to get another round and Sherlock leaned close, tucking her hair behind her ear, before whispering, "You look beautiful tonight, Molly." She blushed and bit her lip, gazing up at him through her lashes. He was struck with the overwhelming urge to kiss her but held onto his self-control. _Not here, not now._

Sherlock's hand dropped to her thigh as the other men returned and he stroked the skin there. This time, Molly merely crossed her legs, confining his movements to the outside of her leg, restricting access to her inner thighs. He continued to run his fingers over her, loving the soft intakes of air from her when he hit a particularly sensitive spot.

The alcohol made him feel pleasantly numb and all he could think about was going home with Molly. He glared at his glass and decided it was time to stop drinking if he wanted to be able to think at all. Molly's close proximity was already clouding his thoughts enough.

He watched her, no longer hiding it as he was earlier in the evening, gauging her reactions as he touched her side and thigh occasionally. She blushed and bit her lip, trying not to give away to the men across from them what was happening under the table.

He glowered inwardly. He wanted them to know. He wanted everyone to know that she belonged to him. That he was the only one who could touch her, kiss her… make love to her. He wrenched his thoughts out of dangerous territory. He couldn't think about that yet. Not while he was still chasing her and definitely not while he was in public.


	18. The Heart of the Matter

They exited the pub out into the cold night air.

After goodbyes, (during which Greg hugged Molly a little too long and John 'accidentally' elbowed him in the ribs while winking at Sherlock,) John and Greg elected to share a cab, as they had further to go than Sherlock and Molly.

Sherlock had to talk himself out of punching the detective inspector; thankfully, he was buzzed but not that far gone. This had nothing on stag night. He'd purposefully stopped drinking before the others, not wanting to repeat that night's events. He hated loss of control, especially when he lost control over his mind. If he couldn't be brilliant, what good was he? Besides, he didn't want to become too aggressive in front of Molly. He knew from experience that he could be rather belligerent when highly intoxicated and he'd rather not kill anyone with Molly standing nearby.

Molly waved goodbye at the cab and turned to Sherlock with a crooked grin. Her eyes were bright and Sherlock was pleased to see the flush that began in her cheeks and spread down her neck to her chest. Looking away self-consciously, she tugged her coat around her, and began to trudge down the sidewalk in the direction of Baker Street. Sherlock followed her, supporting her with a hand on her back when she stumbled while wondering exactly how to get from point A to point B; those points being A, Molly being attracted to him, and B, him being able to act on that attraction and her being receptive to it.

He was contemplating how to bring his plans to fruition, when they passed a dimly lit side street and he was struck with sudden inspiration. He reached out and grabbed her hand, stopping her and causing her glance back at him, puzzled. He grinned at her mischievously, putting a finger to his lips in the 'shhh' motion, and was rewarded with the sight of her pupils dilating after a quick peek at the obscure street. He led her down into the alley, intertwining his fingers with hers. He could still feel the alcohol coursing through him a sly glance at her told him that she was still feeling its effects as well.

Sherlock stopped sharply and yanked on her hand, drawing her close. He noted with pride that she didn't cry out, merely gasping in surprise at the sudden movement, her eyes as big a saucers. He crushed her to him, staring down at her; their panted breath visible in the cold night air, the playful mood from moments ago, vanishing. His gaze flicked over her face; pupils dilated, lips parted, cheeks flushed, before he leaned over, slowly, deliberately, and met her lips with his own. She froze for a moment but he didn't stop, feeling her uncertainty through the movements of her hands in the air by his side. Abruptly, she broke away and glared up at him, attempting to push him away.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?!" He didn't respond, simply lowering his lips to her neck and kissing the soft skin there, praying to every deity that he didn't believe in that she would give in to the desire that was coursing through his veins, stronger than any drug.

He felt her tiny but strong hands on his chest, pushing harder now, and he let go of her, taking a step back but staying close to her warmth. His brow furrowed in confusion.

"What's wrong? You are exhibiting several signs of arousal and have each time I have kissed you. What are you so afraid of?"

She shook her head at him, her breath still quick. "You. I'm afraid of you, Sherlock."

He inhaled sharply, the cold air cutting his lungs. A feeling of misery and guilt churned in his gut as he gaped at her, a wounded expression etched on his face.

"Molly, how could you fear me? I would never hurt you."

Molly frowned at him, tears in her eyes. "You would never hurt me?" she cried out, incredulously. "You hurt me all the time. I've loved you for so long and you are always so cruel. Always."

Sherlock watched her helplessly as she put a hand to her mouth, trapping in a sob.

"I know you, Sherlock. You'll get tired of me. You'll get bored. I'm scared to give you my heart because you'll damage it."

He reached for her, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb and settling his hand on her jaw. She didn't push him away and he took a deep breath, (sparing a moment of gratitude for the alcohol that made her bold enough to finally have this conversation,) before answering her.

"I might. I might hurt you, Molly. But so could any other man. I can only promise you that I will do my very best not to. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. I want to protect you. I want to keep you safe, here with me."

She let out a bitter laugh, pulling away, casting her eyes to the ground as she wrapped her arms around herself in a defensive maneuver. "The thing I need protection from is you."

He spontaneously recoiled as if she had struck him. "No, Molly, no. Don't ever say that. Please, don't ever say that." Sherlock trapped her jaw with his index finger and thumb, pulling her face up to meet his gaze, imploring her with everything in him to see how much he cared for her. "Look at me. Molly, you want this as much as I do."

She shook her head at him, breaking his hold, angry tears in her eyes. "No, no, I'm over you. I've moved on. You," her lip trembled and he had to resist the urge to grab her and kiss her to stop the quivering. "You don't own me anymore, Sherlock."

He stared at her a moment with fire in his eyes before the decision was made and he grabbed her again, shoving her against the wall and pinning her there with his body. He growled softly.

"Yes, I do."

He captured her mouth with his, claiming her with his kiss. She feebly pushed at him but he was insistent, his tongue darting out to lick at her bottom lip, seeking entrance.

She finally broke and opened for him, reciprocating his intoxicating kiss.

His hands went down to clasp her hips tight enough to leave fingerprints.

"Say it, Molly," he growled out, breaking the kiss and leaning his forehead against hers. She stared up at him with a puzzled expression, her eyes dazed with lust. "Say it!" he snapped and saw understanding dawn on her.

"I'm yours," Molly mumbled softly, sounding very conflicted and a little ashamed of herself.

"Louder." Sherlock started nipping the skin of her neck just above her pulse point. Molly gasped and repeated herself, with a bit more volume but it wasn't enough for Sherlock. "Louder, Molly!" he commanded. He dipped his hands down to just under where her skirt ended and stroked the soft flesh of her inner thigh, still kissing on the junction of her neck and shoulder.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head so Sherlock retaliated by moving his hand under her skirt and sucking a mark into her neck. She swayed and he steadied her before pulling back completely letting go of her.

"Say it, Molly. Say that you are mine," he insisted vehemently. She chewed on her bottom lip, unsure, and turned to walk away. Sherlock caught up with her in two strides and grabbed her hand, pulling her forcibly back into his embrace. He kissed her roughly, biting her lips and plundering her mouth with his tongue.

Before he knew it, Sherlock had Molly held against the wall again, his hands grabbing at the backs of her thighs as she wrapped her legs around him, their lips still locked. He ground his growing erection against her core, eliciting a moan of pleasure from the petite woman. He could feel the dam she had built up breaking as she eagerly clutched him to her. He pulled back and latched onto the mark he had previously left on her neck, making it darker.

"Say it!" He demanded and she finally acquiesced. "I'm yours, Sherlock! Only yours! Please!" Her voice was low and hoarse with need. He grinned against her skin triumphantly.

"Yes," he breathed, still peppering her neck with soft caresses.

_And I'm yours._

He didn't say it out loud but that didn't make it any less true. Sherlock melted into Molly, devouring her with hungry kisses. He pressed against her, feeling her warm body molding against his.

She whimpered covetously against his mouth and the sound jolted him back to reality. The ache for her was overwhelming him. Sherlock drew back, noting her dazed expression with pride. He held his hand out to her and Molly took it after a moment, letting him lead her out the other side of the alley and quickly down the block towards the flat.


	19. Finally Mine

Twice more, he stopped and pulled her close, kissing her until he could barely think and was sure she felt the same.

As they arrived at the door and she pulled out her set of keys, his sense of urgency returned and he moved close behind her, kissing her neck and putting an arm around her, slipping his hand under her coat to stroke her breasts through the thin material of her dress. She gasped, nearly dropping her keys and he grinned against her, taking them from her and slipping it into the lock without even taking his lips from her neck.

She jumped as he pinched her arse playfully and laughed, skipping into the flat. He followed close behind and slammed the door, not caring if he woke Mrs. Hudson.

"Shhh!" Molly giggled, holding a finger to her lips.

He smirked at her roguishly before lunging forward and wrapping her in his arms. Her laughter turned to moans as he ravaged her mouth and began yanking off her outer clothes. He dropped her coat and scarf to the floor at the bottom of the stairs and quickly did the same to his before picking her up, eliciting a squeal of surprise, her legs wrapping around his waist. He kissed her passionately and began climbing the stairs to their flat, not letting go of her. At the top of the staircase, her back slammed against the door to 221B and he relished her gasp and the way her fingers tightened their grip in his dark curls as he snogged her silly.

_It's about damn time._

They were so caught up in the moment, both failed to notice the downstairs flat open and their landlady's head pop out to glare up at them before she realized what was happening and retreated, shaking her head with a fond smile.

Reaching behind her, he fumbled for the doorknob and shoved it in his haste to get her inside. They tumbled headlong into the flat and Sherlock flung his arms out to stop himself from crushing Molly, who landed on her side. He landed above her on his hands and knees, effectively trapping her on the ground. She squirmed under him, rolling to her back and gazing up at him; he noted her blown pupils and the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

For a brief second, he hesitated, wondering if he could really let go and just be in the moment, but when he felt her hands unbuttoning his shirt, all rational thought left him.

As she pulled the shirt from his shoulders, he spared a passing thought, thanking his luck that Molly kept up with her pills religiously, before eagerly pulling her skirt up and over her thighs. She lifted her hips, helping him along and he pulled her dress up over her head, leaving her in her underwear.

He raked his gaze over her body, admiring her delicate curves and her matching bra and knickers. They were simple white lace and he found his mouth watering at the sight.

He sat back on his heels, studying her. She made to cover herself, obviously feeling like he thought she was inadequate but he grabbed her hands, pinning them to her sides as he scrutinized her, his eyes narrowing.

"Having quite a lot of sex my arse." He snorted, annoyed.

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"You said you were having quite a lot of sex with your ex fiancée. You were lying."

She looked away self-consciously. "Umm how do you…? Does it matter?"

He nodded. "It does." Suddenly, he bent over her, hearing her catch her breath. "I was quite jealous. I think I might have to punish you for that lie sometime."

She gasped and bit down hard on her lip.

_Interesting._

"I can see that idea appeals to you."

She nodded eagerly.

Desire coursed through him and he practically pounced on her, licking her neck and collar bone and teasing her nipples through the soft material of the bra. He was fully hard and straining against his trousers but wanted to tease her to the point of breaking before he entered her.

Tease her like she had teased him with her brushes against him in the lab, her walks through the flat in nothing but a towel, her flirting with other men.

He smirked and motioned for her to sit up a bit so he could reach behind her to unclasp her bra, thankful that it gave way fairly easily. He pulled it off of her and threw it behind him somewhere.

He spared a vague thought that maybe they should move to the bedroom before latching onto one of her nipples, licking and sucking as she arched her back, pushing herself further into his mouth. He listened to her quiet moans for cues as to what she liked the most before he reared up to give her a dizzying kiss.

He pulled away and grinned wickedly, beginning to kiss and lick down her body, pausing several times to suck a dark mark into her flesh. He loved the idea of her trying to cover them all in the morning and not being able to. He steadily moved down until he got to her hips and was surprised when she clamped her legs shut, her eyes wide with both fear and arousal.

"Are you denying me what I want?" he growled but with a curious look on his face.

"I, uhm, it's just," she stuttered nervously.

He sat back on his heels and studied her again. "Do you not like it?"

She covered her face with her hands, unable to meet his eyes and muttered something he didn't quite catch.

"What?" he inquired.

"I'VE NEVER HAD AN ORGASM DURING SEX!" She burst out.

He stared at her, stunned for a moment. "Who the **_hell_** have you been having sex with, Molly?"

She covered her face again, mortified.

He gently pulled her hands away and looked down at her, lightly planting a kiss on her lips. "Do you trust me?"

She chewed her lip before nodding slightly and he smiled at her before repeating his former trail of affection down her torso. He could sense her nervousness as he positioned himself between her thighs, her body radiating tension. He kissed and licked his way up her inner thigh slowly, giving her time to adjust to his presence there and relax a bit.

He slowly pulled her knickers down her legs and gave her a smoldering glance as he raised them to his mouth, sucking on the fabric. Her eyes were huge as she took in the erotic sight. She gasped as his fingers explored her wet folds and he pushed one inside of her.

_Oh God, Molly, you're so ready for me. _

He groaned in appreciation. Her breath came in short pants as he worked first one, then two fingers in and out of her. Leaning forward, keeping his eyes on her, he took an experimental lick, focusing his attentions on her clit. She shrieked, and her hands flew to tangle in his dark curls, pulling in a very satisfactory manner, if you asked him.

Her taste was intoxicating and his cock became almost painfully hard as he licked her but he was determined to give her her first orgasm before he even entered her. She arched her back up, all inhibitions lost in her pleasure and his closed his lips over her clit and sucked. Her orgasm exploded over her and she screamed incoherently as he worked his fingers inside of her until she melted, going limp.

He climbed back up her body and grinned at her before kissing her dizzy, wanting her to taste herself on him. She shuddered underneath him, coming back down to earth and he pulled back to look at the dreamy expression on her face.

"Oh wow. How..?" she asked, obviously confused.

"Well, it's partly knowing what to do and partly the fact that you want me more than you've ever wanted another man. Isn't that right?"

She smiled up at him. "You are so cocky."

He grinned wickedly. "Speaking of cocks…"

Her eyes widened at his filthy innuendo and he smirked at her.

"You love my voice, don't you Molly? I might have to test just how much sometime."

She waited breathlessly as he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, taking himself in hand. Staring into her eyes, he stroked his hard cock, while slowly, deliberately teasing her with his fingers.

He saw the second something in her snapped and she reared up to knock him flat on his back and take him in her mouth. He gasped in shock and pleasure as her tongue teased him, licking him from base to tip before taking him in as far as she could. It was far better than his dream and he had to pull her off before long.

He growled, pulling her into his lap, biting her lip as she ground against him. He was vaguely aware that he was still mostly clothes while she was stark naked on top of him.

_Mine._

He pushed her off, and stood, extending his hand to help her up and pulled her in for a kiss, intending to take her to the bedroom. The kiss deepened though and before he realized it, he had her up against the wall and was pushing his way into her warmth.

_Mine._

He'd be ashamed in the morning. Ashamed of his impatience, his lack of self-control, his need for her. He'd be ashamed in the morning but Sherlock took her right there against the wall. He fucked her fast and hard, the slow, tortuous buildup almost too much for him. Her moans and screams of his name echoed off the walls as he brought her to her peak again with his fingers on her clit and his cock deep inside of her. A few thrusts later, he froze, emptying himself inside her body, whispering her name into the crook of her neck.

_Mine._

After a moment of stillness, he pulled out of her and sank to the floor, still holding her in his arms.

Nuzzling her neck, he asked, "So this means you are breaking up with Daniel, right?"

She giggled a bit. "Poor guy."

"Surely you aren't upset about breaking up with him?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

She shook her head, amused. "No, no, I just feel bad for him."

He rolled his eyes. _Just like her to think about his feelings even after we just had sex._

"Whatever for? He'll find someone else." He played with the ends of her long hair.

She sighed, shaking her head fondly at his exasperation. "Well, Sherlock, it's kinda mean to break up with someone on Valentine's Day."

Sherlock's head shot up. "Oh, oh! It's Valentine's Day? I suppose you and he had plans?"

She nodded. "Yes, we were going on a date tonight."

_Hmmm…_

Sherlock got to his feet and pulled her up next to him. "Let's go to bed."

She shot him a look of pure sex and he chuckled. "To sleep, Molly."

He led her towards his room, and pulled back the sheets as she cleaned up in the bathroom. She joined him in the bed after a few moments and seeing her there made his heart clench.

_That's what I want. Her here with me. Forever._

He swatted his thoughts away, somewhat alarmed by the force of them.

He smiled at her and intertwined his fingers with hers as they lay side by side until she fell asleep. Gently rising from the bed, he gave her a fond glance and headed to the living room.

He had research to do.


	20. The Good Valentine's Day

Sherlock heard Molly long before he saw her.

He grinned, listening to the shriek that announced her awakening in his bed, and the subsequent bumps and curse words as she stumbled out of his room into the kitchen. Her hair was a mess and there were remnant of makeup from the night before still on her face. She clutched his dressing gown around her otherwise naked body looking extremely awkward as she met his eyes. He was watching her from his chair, his laptop on his knees. She'd never looked more beautiful to him.

"Good morning Molly." His voice was a little deeper than normal and he was acutely aware of why it was.

She smiled crookedly at him. "Uhm, g-good morning, Sherlock. I uhm, I'm just gonna get some clothes." She dashed through the kitchen and up to her room.

Sherlock stared after her and sighed. _And we're back to the stuttering._ He got to his feet and put his computer on the table before following her up to her room. He leaned on the doorframe, observing her movements as she tore through drawers, digging for clothes.

"You know, this would be easier if we moved your clothes into my closet."

She stopped dead, pivoting to face him, dressed in only a bra and knickers. Pale green this time. He swallowed hard.

"What?" She stared at him with her mouth open in surprise.

He rolled his eyes at her, sighing. "Obviously, if we are going to share a bed, I can make room for your things."

He studied her carefully as a rather attractive flush spread across her skin.

"Oh, uhm, are we going to be sharing a bed then?" She looked anywhere except his face so he crossed the room to take her in his arms, smirking at the tiny sigh of satisfaction that came from the woman.

Taking her chin in his hand, he lifted her face until he could look into her eyes and replied, "I had rather hoped we would. Are you opposed to the idea?"

"No!" she shrieked quickly, wincing as she realized just how fast she had replied. "I mean, no Sherlock, I am not opposed to that idea."

He let go of her, ignoring the urge to throw her on the bed, and clapped his hands together, rubbing vigorously.

"Fantastic. Get dressed, we have things to do today!" At her perplexed gaze, he sighed. "I might not understand the sentiment of this day but I know that you wish to participate in it. Therefore, you need to break things off with whatever-his-name-is so we can spend the day together doing whatever inane things normal people do on this day."

She shook her head, an exasperated, yet fond, grin on her face. "So close, Sherlock, so close."

He rethought his words. "I mean, I wish to take you on a date for Valentine's Day?"

"Better." She beamed at him, and turned to gather up clothing to take into the bathroom with her. He took that as his cue, (though he was tempted to follow her into the bath,) and headed back down the stairs.

Not quite an hour later, Sherlock and Molly left the flat, after an awkward encounter with Mrs. Hudson who insisted on hugging them both multiple times and congratulating them on their shag. Her exact words. Sherlock could feel his ears burn and Molly was red as well. He was sure the blush was more attractive on her than on himself.

He pulled a note card from his jacket pocket and proceeded to skim it quickly, before popping back into the pocket and grabbing Molly's hand, practically hauling her down the street.

"Alright, first order of business, breakfast." He paused. "Or actually, an early lunch. You do sleep late when you were inebriated the previous night."

He was a man on a mission as he dragged her down the street, headed towards a nondescript little café where he sat her down and handed her a menu, ordering a coffee for himself. He wasn't planning on eating this meal, having eaten yesterday morning and knowing he was going to eat that night. When Molly's eggs, bacon and pancakes (she opted for breakfast instead of lunch, typical Molly) he was surprised to feel his stomach rumble. He glanced down in disbelief. _But I just fed you._ He snuck a piece of bacon, ignoring Molly's grin.

"So, Sherlock? Uhm,"

"Yes, Molly. I would consider us a couple now."

"Oh. Was I thinking that loudly?"

"I know you very well."

She smothered a pleased smile at that and he was proud of himself for saying the right thing. _So far so good._

"So, any interesting bodies I should take a look at tomorrow?"

He lost himself in her words as she excitedly explained her most recent findings in the body of an older woman who had a fantastically weird blood clot. His phone buzzed in his pocket but he ignored it in favor of listening to her. _She's the only person in the world I'd ignore a phone call for. Ah, it's probably just John, reminding me not to be an arse and that we have dinner plans._ The buzzing stopped and he smiled at Molly.

She finished eating, (or rather, THEY finished eating, he filched several more bites of food from her,) and he paid. Standing, he offered her his hand and shuddered at the feel of her tiny fingers intertwining with his much larger ones.

"So what now?" she asked, scrutinizing their linked hands as he dragged her along again.

He held up his hand, attracting the attention of a nearby cab and pulled her to him, giving her a scorching kiss.

"I've been wanting to do that all morning. Now, let's go break up with your boyfriend. Your other one. Wait that came out wrong." He sputtered, not finding the right words and feeling like a complete idiot.

He shook his head and pulled her into the cab after him.

Sherlock watched from across the café where they first met Daniel as Molly fidgeted with a napkin. She sipped a cup of coffee and nibbled on a scone. _Stress eater. Never noticed that before._ He was finding that there were many things he hadn't realized about his pathologist. Just when he thought he knew everything about her, she still managed to surprise him. That was some feat considering he could read most people like a book and determine their actions before they could themselves.

He ignored the buzzing of his phone, rolling his eyes. Mycroft or Lestrade could wait and he already knew what John would say.

He snapped to attention when he spotted the man making his way to Molly's table. Sherlock was out of Daniel's line of sight but close enough that he could hear what was said between the two.

"Hullo, Molly." Sherlock stiffened as Daniel gave a stiff Molly a kiss on the cheek.

"Hi Daniel."

"So what's so important that you can't wait until tonight? I've got something special planned." He took the seat across from her and looked at her expectantly.

"Uhm, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I don't think we should see each other anymore."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Please don't tell me this is about that arse you live with."

Molly visibly deflated and Sherlock clenched a fist.

"He doesn't care about you. If he did, he'd treat you better."

Molly bristled, glaring at the other man. "Don't pretend you know him. You don't. He might not be like everyone else, but that makes him better, not worse."

Daniel snorted. "You're fooling yourself if you think that he can give you what you need."

Sherlock was done. He stood and stalked over to the two arguing people, putting a hand on Molly's shoulder and squeezing gently, he was gratified to feel her lean into his touch. He glared down at the other man and narrowed his eyes.

"And of course he's here. Too afraid to face me alone, Mols?" Daniel sent an angry glare in Molly's direction.

"Don't call her that."

"Oh? Why not?" Everything about Daniel's body language alluded to barely contained fury.

"She doesn't like it." Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was obvious she hated the nickname. Whether it was just distaste or the fact that Moriarty called her that, he wasn't sure.

"How would you know?" Daniel questioned.

"I know her better than anyone else in the world." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

"Really?"

"Yes," he answered smugly. "Now if you will excuse us, we are going to enjoy our first day as a couple."

Molly winced, but Sherlock didn't care. Everything inside him was screaming for him to stake his claim on her. It was a little domineering for his taste but he couldn't fight it. He took her hand and helped her up from the table, holding out her coat for her. She shrugged into it and they turned to leave, but before they could go, the spurned man let out a parting shot.

"When he fails you Molly, I'll be waiting for your call." Sherlock couldn't decide exactly what the look on his face was. There was anger, sure, but there was also sadness. He shook off the tinge of guilt he felt, knowing that the other man was probably right. He probably would disappoint her someday. But that didn't mean he couldn't try. For her.

Sherlock draped his arm around her and led her from the café. She directed a watery smile up at him.

"Now that is taken care of, let's go enjoy our day, yeah?"

She nodded and let him lead her towards a cab as he consulted his notecard.

"I have everything planned out."

Three hours later, they stood outside The Royal Society of Medicine Library with an irate librarian screaming at them. Molly had a chastened expression on her face but Sherlock was trying, and failing, to suppress a laugh.

"Have you no decency?! This is NOT the place to have a snog!" The little old woman snapped in their faces and turned on her heel, marching back through the doors angrily. Sherlock let go and roared with laughter, startling Molly, who had never heard him so open with his mirth. He got himself under control for the most part and held his hand out to her.

"Well, that was an adventure. Singed a bit were you, my dear?"

She gaped at him. "Did you just quote The Princess Bride?"

He nodded the affirmative, a bit guiltily, and she grinned.

"You are the perfect man."

"I didn't know you liked ice cream." Molly said around a mouthful of strawberry heaven.

Sherlock grinned. "Never could resist it. Even in the dead of winter."

His phone buzzed. He silenced it.

Molly threw another piece of bread to the hungry ducks.

"How did you know that I love coming here?" she inquired.

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "You mentioned it once while we were running electric shock tests on a fatty liver."

"Oh. I didn't know you were listening."

"I always listen to you."

He took his notecard out of his pocket and glanced at it, mentally checking off items.

He wasn't quick enough to dodge when Molly grabbed for it.

"What's this?" she teased, reading over it.

He made a grab for it but the pathologist was surprisingly agile.

"Sherlock, is this a list of things you think you need to do for me on Valentine's Day?"

Flowers, candy, dinner, jewelry, meaningful gift.

He glared at the ground.

"I may have asked John's advice."

She handed it back to him and encircled his waist with her arms, linking her hands behind him and looking up into his face. _I'll never get tired of this feeling._

"Sherlock, you don't have to be normal. I don't want you to be normal."

He smiled down at her affectionately. "Come on, it should be time to meet up with John and Mary for dinner."


	21. The Bad Valentine's Day

"So…?" Mary raised a brow at Molly as they walked towards the bathroom, following the unspoken rule that women go in groups. "How did Sherlock do today?"

Molly giggled, averting her eyes, and Mary smiled.

"Good. John was worried he'd cock it up but I had faith in him. What did you two do?"

Remembering the events of the day, Molly blushed, before replying, "Not much."

Mary grinned, knowingly. "Alright missy, keep your secrets." She rubbed her swollen belly. "Ugh, I'm so tired of being pregnant. I'm not sure I'll survive until the due date."

"March 8th, right?" Molly washed her hands as Mary took care of business.

"Yes, and it's only February 14th and I'm already dying. My back is killing me!"

They exited the ladies' room and returned to the table, Mary settling herself into her chair with help from her husband. Sherlock stood and pulled out Molly's chair for her which elicited a blush from the pathologist and a smirk from the other two.

"Have you gotten everything for little Amanda yet?" Molly asked the expectant parents, who began rattling off lists of items they had and others they still needed to buy.

Sherlock zoned out, just watching the interactions between his friends and his girlfriend. _Hmmm, girlfriend. I like that. Why on earth do I like that? It's a childish name for her but it fits. Odd._ Boyfriend, he wasn't so sure he could handle. _Partner? No, that's John. In hindsight, that might be fuel for some of the rumors. Lover? No, don't want to send people's minds in the wrong direction. Companion? _He nearly laughed out loud as he got a mental image of himself dressed as The Doctor and Molly wearing Rose's outfit. _I'll figure this out later._

He cleared his throat as everyone stared at him.

"What are we talking about?"

Molly and Sherlock exited Angelo's first, still laughing at the owner's confusion at the two couples. At first, Angelo had assumed that Molly and Mary were a couple as well as John and Sherlock.

"I'm not sure he actually believes us," Molly giggled.

Sherlock put an arm around her shoulders. "Oh well. People are stupid." He turned to peer back into the restaurant to locate John and Mary. "What is taking them so long?"

"Oh be nice, Sherlock." Molly hit him playfully in the chest. "She's very pregnant. She's slow."

"Nonsense, you can't be very pregnant. You either are or you aren't."

"Have it your way." Molly shook her head at him and he pulled her closer as they waited.

John came through the door after a moment, supporting a waddling Mary.

"Oh, I'm as big as a house!"

Sherlock sighed. "Mary…"

"Oh, do shut up Sherlock."

He grinned. He really did like Mary.

They made to cross the street and were a few steps into the street, when the building across from them exploded, throwing all four of them to the pavement.

Sherlock lay on his back, his mind racing. _There are no coincidences. Why now though? Molly. Is Molly ok? Did Mary land on her belly?_ He craned his neck, reaching out for Molly had recovered and was crawling to Mary, who lay flat on her back. He vaguely heard her soothing the pregnant woman.

"Mary? Are you ok? Does anything hurt?"

"Does anything hurt?! MY WHOLE BODY HURTS!" Mary shrieked. "What the bloody hell just happened?"

Sherlock sat up, his jaw clenched. "Gas leak no doubt."

"A gas leak? Or a _gas leak?_" John asked from his position a few feet over, still lying flat on his back. He rolled over and crawled on his hands and knees to his wife and began examining her. Satisfied there were no injuries, he helped her sit up and looked to Sherlock who was visually checking over Molly.

The street was covered in glass in pieces of the building in front of Angelo's. The entire corner was destroyed, but the blast was localized to the one building. _Definitely not an accident._ _Just enough explosive used to level the building but not affect the rest of the street. Had an external trigger or it wouldn't have gone off at the exact moment we were crossing the street. A warning._

Sherlock was irate. Someone had put his friends in danger, his girlfriend, in danger, Sherlock inspected Molly for injuries, seeing her wipe a small amount of blood from a cut on her cheek and rub the back of her head. _Make sure someone looks at that._ He pulled his phone from his pocket, intending to call Lestrade, then Mycroft, but stopped dead when the display lit up.

7 Missed Calls.

All from a blocked number.

"Oh stupid, STUPID!" he hit his leg with his fist.

John looked up from his wife, questioningly. "Sherlock, what is it?"

Sherlock tossed his phone to his friend who looked at the screen and paled before passing it to Molly.

"Why didn't you answer him?"

"I was… busy." He eyed Molly speculatively.

_Shit. I let her distract me. I was so wrapped up in her that I ignored vital information. Stupid sentiment. Stupid._

He didn't register that John had make his way over to him until he felt a hand on his shoulder. John helped him to his feet and leaned in close, lowering his voice so only Sherlock could hear him.

"Don't you dare blame this on her. You can do your work and have room for her too. I won't let you use this as an excuse to push her away. Not when you're finally happy."

_Am I that obvious? _Sherlock made to protest but John cut him off.

"Don't tell me you aren't happy. I watched you all night. I've never seen you act the way you do around her."

Sherlock thought a moment and gave a curt nod, striding over to Molly, helping her to her feet and taking his phone from her.

He shot off a text to Lestrade, telling him to get his arse to the scene and dialed Mycroft's number. His brother picked up and he could hear his parents in the background singing. No doubt they were waltzing around the kitchen as they did every Valentine's Day after a little too much wine. He grinned in spite of the situation.

"Yes, brother? Are you coming to relieve me?" Mycroft's exasperated voice came through the speaker.

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "Actually, I need you to come here."

Mycroft's sigh was audible. "I have no interest in participating in your night of sentiment."

"There's been a bombing."

"In that case, I'll be there within the hour."

Thirty minutes later, all four friends were lined up on the curb, covered in orange blankets. Actually, Molly was under a pile of them because every time one was placed on Sherlock, he took it off and wrapped her in it. The medics were persistent though, so poor Molly had about a dozen by the time Lestrade arrived.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the Detective Inspector as he lingered a bit too long at Molly's side, asking if she was alright.

Mary was being checked out again, and was going to be taken to the hospital for a cautionary internal exam, but nothing seemed to be wrong. John, Sherlock and Molly each had a couple cuts and bruises, and they would each be sore where they contacted with the pavement, but they were otherwise fine.

Mycroft strolled up a few minutes later and surveyed the situation, muttering under his breath to Anthea who never looked up from her Blackberry.

When he got to the four on the ground, he greeted them all, his eyes lingering on the pathologist. He raised a brow at Sherlock.

"Walk with me brother."

Sherlock sighed. He knew what was coming. Getting to his feet stiffly, he followed. _Best to get this over with._

"Are you sure that right now is the best time to grow a heart?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Really? I did fake my death for some people a while back, remember? And I shot someone in cold blood to protect two of the people over there." He waved vaguely in the direction of John and Mary.

"And you forced your pathologist to move into your flat while lying that it was necessary for her safety."

"It was! Is!" Sherlock raised his voice, indignantly and Mycroft gave him a look.

"My agents follow her every time she leaves Baker Street. Do you really think we couldn't do the same at her flat?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. _Of course I know that._

Just then, he heard the ping of an incoming message. His eyes narrowed, the only people who would text him were in front of him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened the message, reading it quickly before passing it to Mycroft and striding back over to Molly, who was engaged in conversation with Greg.

He put his arm around her shoulders and she looked up at him, her eyes widening as he swooped down and captured her lips.

"What the fuck?" escaped from the detective inspector.

Sherlock stopped kissing a dazed Molly long enough to glance over at Lestrade. "In the future, please stand a bit farther away from my girlfriend."

Everyone within hearing stopped dead. John and Mary gave each other a high-five.

Greg stared at them for a moment, during which Sherlock was pleased to see that Molly was staring up at him with undisguised adoration and, if he wasn't mistaken, more than a bit of lust.

The detective inspector threw his hands up in the air before walking away, mumbling something about making up their minds under his breath.

Mycroft appeared, handing his phone back to Sherlock and giving him a disgusted look.

"I have a car here for you all. We can drop the Watsons off at the clinic and then go to Baker Street."

Sherlock and John both pulled on one of Mary's hands to help her from the curb and they all walked over to the car.

Sherlock's mind raced.

**DON'T IGNORE ME AGAIN.**


	22. A Tale of Two Presents

Sherlock paced the room, listening to an annoyingly impassive Mycroft rattle off details his people had gathered about the bombing.

"No one was hurt. The building was empty. There was some collateral damage but nothing too serious. It seems that it was entirely orchestrated to be a warning to you."

Molly, who had been silent since they left Mary and John at the clinic, piped up. "A warning? What for? We haven't done anything to make him angry." She looked to Sherlock, her eyes questioning. "Have we?"

Sherlock sighed and silently handed her his phone, the call log pulled up on the display. Her eyes went round.

"Oh."

He didn't bother showing her the text. It wouldn't make any difference.

Mycroft stood, raising a brow at Sherlock. "I suggest you don't commit that mistake again." There was no misunderstanding the meaning behind his words.

He let himself out, leaving Sherlock and Molly staring at each other. After a few moments of stalemate, Molly stood and went to climb in his lap. Sherlock's arms curled around her automatically (_when did this become automatic?_) and he whispered, "I'm sorry the day ended up like this."

Molly sat up and looked at him. "Sherlock, why did you ignore him? You never ignore phone calls. Especially when you know they are important."

He averted his eyes. "Well, uhm, John said I should not get distracted during the day. That I should focus on you. So I never checked to see who was calling."

Molly smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. When she pulled back, he licked his lips, completely unconscious of the action.

"Oh Sherlock," she shook her head fondly. "I know you have to work. I don't need to be the center of your attention all the time."

_How did I not see years ago that she is the perfect woman for me?_

Abruptly, Sherlock sat bolt upright, nearly knocking Molly onto the floor.

"Oh, I forgot!" His face lit up and his eyes darted past the kitchen.

"What, what is it?" Molly looked around frantically. Sherlock pushed Molly off his lap, stood and grabbed her hand, practically hauling her towards his bedroom.

"I got you a present! John said to get you something meaningful, something that was unique to you."

(Actually, that conversation went more like, "No, Sherlock, when I said unique to her I didn't mean incredibly morbid," as Sherlock presented John with a human heart in a jar. "But -" "But nothing. I'm sure you'll figure out something more appropriate and MUCH less creepy." "But she's a pathologist, she likes morbid." "No. Just, no.")

He stopped in front of the bathroom and turned to her. Her expression was one of complete and utter confusion.

"You got me a present? And it's in the bathroom?"

He nodded enthusiastically before throwing the door open.

He puffed up with pride at Molly's shocked gasp.

_I knew she'd love it._

There, in the bathroom, stood a gorgeous claw footed soaker tub. It was huge, much larger than even the one she had back at her own flat. It dominated the bathroom, the copper finish glinting in the fluorescent light.

She stood staring at it in shock for a little too long for Sherlock's taste.

He scooped her up in his arms, shimmying his way through the narrow doorway and deposited her in the tub.

"See?" he said excitedly. "You always complain about how small the tub is and now you have a big one to soak as long as you want."

She fingered the edge of the tub for a moment in silence then looked up at him through her lashes. He was completely taken by surprise at the raw sexual desire in her gaze.

"You put it in your bathroom."

He gulped. _Was that a mistake?_ "Uhm, yes?"

In the blink of an eye, her hand snaked up to grab the collar of his shirt.

He cleared his throat. "Why don't you inaugurate it?"

"I think we will." She smiled and he was reminded of a predator. _Wait, that's wrong. I'm supposed to be in charge here._

"We? Molly, you know I prefer to shower."

She yanked and all he managed was a surprised "Oh!" before she dragged him into the tub with her.

Much later, Sherlock guided a yawning Molly into the bedroom. They were both wrapped in towels and Sherlock left her in the room to get some clothes from her old room. _Remind Molly tomorrow to move her clothes downstairs. This is getting old fast._

He returned and found Molly seated on the bed, holding a box the size and shape of one used to house clothes.

"Did you get me another present?" Her tone said that she already knew the answer, but he shook his head anyway.

He took the box from her and placed it on the bed. She stood and he shifted so his body was between her and the box. Just in case. Tentatively, he opened it and looked inside.

There was an envelope on top, with what appeared to be a card inside.

Sherlock inhaled deeply. Cigarette smoke. _Hm, smells familiar. _He chalked it up to his studies on ash.

The card sat on a bed of white tissue paper, making it impossible to see what lay beneath.

The envelope was the exact same type he'd had delivered to him before. _Heavy weight, expensive, handmade._ He fingered it a moment before lifting it from the box.

The outside was inscribed with **FOR THE HAPPY COUPLE** and he gave Molly a look before opening it.

Inside, there was a card, as predicted, but also several photos. He scanned them, his brow furrowing, and handed them to Molly.

He watched her face as she glanced through the stack of photos. There were pictures of them at each of the places they had visited during the day. The ice cream shop, the park, even a photo of them kissing in the library.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He wasn't happy someone had been following them and he hadn't even noticed.

The last two pictures in the stack were different though. Sherlock's brow wrinkled in concentration. One of the places he recognized. The other, not so much.

The first photo was a plain brick building. It was unexceptional to most eyes but to Sherlock, it was very special indeed. It was where he first discovered his love of chemistry. It was his first makeshift lab. The second picture was a small house that Molly seemed to recognize. He watched her reaction to it and deduced its meaning to her. _Childhood home then._

He put them aside and opened the card.

**Hello darlings,**

**Daddy is not pleased. It is rude to ignore people. Even if you are in the throes of newly minted couple bliss. Naughty Molly, not breaking up with your boyfriend before having it out with Sherlock. You should be ashamed of yourself, you little hussy. And Sherlock, what do you have to say for yourself, taking your lady love's virtue in such a fashion? I saw that little scene in the alleyway. I think little Molly has a kink for you telling her what to do, Sherlock.**

**But that is neither here nor there. You have upset me. So it's time to give you another puzzle to solve.**

**As you know, the final two photos are of places that have special meaning to one of you. Your first lesson is happiness. I've left you a clue at each of the locations. Go visit them tomorrow. You'll figure it out. Eventually.**

**I'll be in touch.**

**Love, Me.**

**P.S. Oh, forget what I said earlier. I'm happy for you both. Here's a gift in honor of your union. It's been a long time coming.**

Sherlock read aloud and Molly listened, expressionless.

He put the card aside and reached back into the box.

His fingers closed around silky material and he felt like he was going to be sick. Pulling it out of the box, he saw exactly what he expected.

Lingerie.

Sherlock lifted the flimsy material out of the box and held it up so Molly could see. It was hooker red and highly provocative; Sherlock's jaw clenched in anger as he thought of their tormentor buying that for his pathologist. It was a little too reminiscent of what had happened to her already at the hands of Moriarty and he knew she was thinking the same.

He turned and walked out of the room and into the kitchen, where he lit his Bunsen burner and proceeded to set fire to the offending garment. He then threw it into an aluminum can he kept on hand for when he played with fire and Sherlock and Molly watched it burn.


	23. The First Piece

"I have some questions." Molly chewed nervously on her lip.

"I have some answers." Sherlock replied steadily.

"How did he know?"

She didn't elaborate. She didn't have to. He knew exactly what she was referring to.

"He said he saw us in the alley. He must have someone watching us when we leave the flat." _Good thing Mycroft has his people shadowing us too._

"How did he get in to leave the gift?"

"He must've come in with the men who delivered and installed the bath."

She shuddered and her eyes darted around the room. "Do you think he can see us now?"

"No, Mycroft's men swept the flat again this morning before you woke up." _I made sure of that._

"Oh." She looked down.

"You're going to be late for work."

"I know."

Molly sipped a cup of black coffee as she leaned against the counter, gazing over at Sherlock who sat at the kitchen table, devouring a scone.

"You're unconcerned about being late? That's unlike you."

She sighed, rubbing her fingers on the rim of her cup. "Yeah well, I'm just a bit distracted this morning."

"Molly, I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

She nodded but Sherlock could tell she wasn't convinced. Either that or she was concerned about something else.

"I'll be at Bart's when you finish your shift so we can go."

Sherlock shifted his weight back and forth nervously as he stood at the door to the morgue, peering in through the window.

Molly was chatting amicably with an intern, just having finished her last post mortem for the day. She appeared to have relaxed from her brooding silence of the morning but Sherlock was sure that as soon as she saw him, she would relapse back into it. He felt a stab of guilt for having dragged her into their current situation but he knew well enough that he had by no means encouraged her in the beginning.

He pushed open the doors, noting that Molly had already cleaned up and was waiting for him. Sherlock strolled into the morgue, banishing the intern with just a look and stopped directly in front of Molly. He handed her a leather bag.

"Go shower, I brought you some clean clothes."

"I have clothes in my locker, Sherlock." She cocked her head to the side, reading him.

His nose crinkled and he grimaced a bit. "I know but they are all wrinkled and you don't like them anyway. Wear these."

She shook her head, laughing. "Alright, whatever."

Sherlock sauntered into her office and made himself comfortable, putting his feet up on top of the desk. He knew she'd hate it but he'd make sure to take them down before she came back.

His plan was to take her to her home first. The other place, his lab, could wait. Besides, he didn't want to get there before dinner time. He picked up a paper off of her desk and started to read.

"Get your feet off my desk, Sherlock." Molly passed by the door. He was too engrossed in an autopsy report to notice her return. Tossing it back onto the pile of papers, he jumped up and headed out into the main part of the morgue.

"Shall we be off?" He motioned for her to lead and followed behind.

"I borrowed a car from Mycroft for the day." He stated as they walked through the halls towards the front of the hospital.

"You drive?" Molly raised a brow at him.

Sherlock nodded. "I can. Not really fond of it though. Is that surprising?"

"No, not really. I mean, on the one hand I would think that you are too posh and too lazy to drive. On the other, you aren't very predictable and driving is a skill I could see you finding useful." She stopped herself from elaborating further, offering instead, "I can drive too. I haven't had a car in years though. No reason living here."

He smiled at her. "I guess neither of us are very predictable."

Molly beamed at him over the top of the car.

"Alright, where are we going?" He asked as they climbed inside.

She gave him a bewildered glance. "The places in the photos, right?"

"Obviously Molly, but I need an address. I don't know where you grew up." Sherlock rolled his eyes but gave Molly a playful grin.

"Oh right." Molly grabbed the GPS that lay on the floorboard and typed in an address, plugging it in and turning the volume up.

It was midafternoon when they arrived at Molly's childhood home.

The house itself was nondescript. It looked just like all the others on the block. A flat, brick façade, showing no personality at all. It was red brick with white shutters and a dark grey roof. _Infinitely less personality than its previous resident, _Sherlock thought, glancing sidelong at Molly as they walked up to the front porch.

The current residents were friendly enough. Especially after Sherlock flashed Lestrade's badge and id in their faces. He ignored the stern look Molly shot his direction. He'd been doing it for years, why stop now?

Now, they were walking around the house, looking for anything out of place. Molly was chattering about her childhood growing up there.

She'd been an only child. Her mother died in a car accident when she was just seven years old and her father had never been the same. He'd doted on his daughter though. While Molly was still an undergrad student in the University, he father had been diagnosed with cancer. He died just before she graduated from medical school.

Molly pointed out the places she used to play and told him stories of each room they investigated. One room held memories of playing dress up in her mom's clothes and shoes. Another, memories of being engrossed in her first anatomy textbook. Still another, memories of her father's deep voice reading aloud to her before bed each night.

Sherlock worked in silence but listened intently to Molly's voice. He held onto each bit of knowledge, filing it away in his ever-growing room for Molly in his mind palace. Her room was the largest by far, but she never seemed to stay in it. He'd be in another part entirely and look up to see her sitting next to him. Or he'd be frustrated, unable to find something, and she would appear to point the way. Sherlock knew he would never be able to delete her.

They'd been searching for about two hours when they decided to take a break. Sitting on the front porch steps, Sherlock sighed.

"I'm just not seeing anything. Whatever he left for us is escaping me." He put his head in his hands. "I don't even know what I'm looking for."

Molly patted his knee. "Maybe we just need to take a step back and look at the bigger picture."

Sherlock sat bolt upright. "Oh, Molly! That's it!"

He jumped up and ran across the street, dodging cars. He ran to the right, then the left, looking at the house. Suddenly, he grinned triumphantly.

"Molly, come here! Look!" He pointed to the house when she joined him. "Do you see it?" She shook her head. "I see a spot of yellow, is that what you are talking about?" He nodded excitedly. "I recognize that yellow. We need a ladder." He took off back across the street.

Luckily, when questioned, the owners produced a ladder and Sherlock scaled it to the roof, leaving Molly to hold the bottom of the ladder. When his head poked over the edge, he saw exactly what he expected.

There, in what he was sure was the same yellow spray paint, was a cipher, just like the ones he had come across before. He clambered fully onto the roof and gingerly made his way over to it. Taking out his phone, he snapped a photo before heading back down to where Molly waited for him.

"It's a cipher, Molly." He showed her the picture.

"The same one used in the Blind Banker?"

Sherlock smirked. "You've been reading John's blog."

"Of course I have. Don't act like you didn't know."

"Yes, exactly the same. Different book though, obviously."

"What book?" Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. It has something we both own. We'll have to figure it out when we get back to the flat." He slipped his phone back into his pocket. "Right, off we go."


	24. A Red Magnifying Glass

Sherlock was watching Molly out of the corner of his eye as they drove up and parked outside of the large brick home that he had grown up in just as the sun was setting. There was a light showing through the front window. No doubt his parents were inside, getting everything set up for dinner.

He saw a bit of trepidation in her expression as she eyed the house and reached over to take her hand while ignoring the twitch of the curtain that told him his mother or father, possibly both, were watching them from the window.

"Come on, I'll show you where the lab is."

She was examining his home as they clambered out of the vehicle and started up the walk. "Who lives here, Sherlock?"

"Not important right now." His mouth pressed into a line as he avoided the question, afraid she would run for the hills if she knew exactly where they were.

She giggled, uneasily. "If we are trespassing, I kinda need to know so I can dodge the bullets."

Sherlock had to stop and put his hands on his knees he was laughing so hard. The mental image of his mother shooting at them from the stoop was highly amusing.

In between guffaws he managed to rasp out, "If she didn't shoot Mary, she definitely won't shoot you."

Molly looked alarmed at that statement, starting to put two and two together and she glanced nervously at the house as Sherlock guided her past it and towards a much smaller brick building some distance behind it.

There was a chain with a lock around the handle when they got to the metal door, but Sherlock produced a key. He was tempted to show off his lock picking skills but remembered that she had witnessed them before, when he'd picked his way into her flat and fell asleep on her couch waiting for her to get home from faking his autopsy. (That had been an interesting awakening. She'd screamed bloody murder when she saw him.)

He hadn't been into his makeshift lab in some years so it took some muscle to pry the door open. He put his shoulder against it and pushed, almost falling into the musty room when the door gave way. Walking in, he immediately noticed that one of the Plexiglas panels in the ceiling had been removed and there were signs of entry. _Well that explains how the door was still rusted shut._

There was a thick layer of dust on the metal tables. Molly sneezed violently the second she set foot into the room but recovered quickly. Sherlock flipped a light switch and the fluorescents popped and flickered before brightening and showing the contents of the well-stocked room to a speechless Molly.

Walking partway into the room, she took in the sight of the tables, strewn with jars, boxes of blank slides and gloves. A faded lab coat hung over the back of the single chair in the room, along with a pair of goggles.

Molly turned slowly to face Sherlock, who still leaned against the doorframe, his expression a mixture of pride and looking for approval.

"This was all yours?"

He nodded and she stared at him, her mouth agape.

"Do you have any idea what I would have given to have had something like this as a child? Hell, I'd have settled for just a microscope! Do you know how lucky you are?"

Sherlock grinned like a little kid and nodded.

"This was my favorite place in the world. Here, I was smarter than Mycroft. This was always the one area I could best him."

He went pensive and Molly touched his arm. "Sherlock, you are brilliant."

He shrugged. "We thought I was stupid before we met other children."

Molly gave him an incredulous look. "Honestly, Sherlock. How could you ever think that?"

Sighing, he sat on one of the tables. "Well, I always had so much trouble controlling my mind. Ordering it into something that made sense. So many thoughts went through my head all at the same time, it drove me crazy."

"Is that why you started taking drugs?"

He nodded, ashamed. "Mycroft could always make sense of his brain. It was so much harder for me to learn to control myself. To shut out the unimportant and focus on the tiny bits of information that I needed. The drugs helped. The morphine shut me down. I could have peace. The cocaine, well, it made me function faster. The come down was terrible though and eventually, the tiny bits of relief I got weren't worth the after effects."

"That's when you finally went to rehab?"

"Yes." He shuddered. "I hated that place. It felt like a prison."

Molly sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, pensively. "I remember what you were like when you were taking. It, well, it wasn't pretty." He nodded and she sucked in a breath before continuing. "I was so upset when you relapsed."

He started to protest that he hadn't relapsed but she stopped him.

"I know, I know, it was just for a case and now I know most of the story but it was still incredibly disappointing Sherlock."

She moved towards him and cupped his jaw in her hands.

"I meant what I said. You are brilliant. And it is terrible when you waste your gifts. But I understand that you have trouble with it. I'm just glad that you found another way to deal with it."

She let go of his face and he grabbed her hands, enveloping them in his much larger ones.

"You help me deal with it," he said, seriously.

She laughed. "I meant solving cases, Sherlock."

"You're so much better than a case."

"That might be the highest compliment you can give. I'm flattered." Molly smirked, her words only slightly sarcastic.

He hopped off the table and planted a chaste kiss on her lips.

"Come on, let's find this clue and get back up to the house. Dinner should be ready soon and I'm starving." He rubbed his hands together, his eyes darting around the room, ignoring Molly's alarmed expression.

"Dinner?" she tentatively questioned.

"Clue first." He responded distractedly.

"Okay then."

Molly walked slowly the room, peering down at the items strewn about. Sherlock stood in one place, comparing the room to his memory of it and searching for differences. There was something out of place, he just couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Ah ha!" He clapped his hands together, startling Molly. "There." He pointed to a magnifying glass with a shiny red handle. "That isn't mine." He pointed to another table. "That one is mine." His was rusty and had duct tape around the handle. Molly smiled at its obvious overuse.

Sherlock and Molly both moved to look it, and noticed that it was positioned over another cipher, also done in yellow paint, but too small to make out without the magnifying glass. Sherlock grinned and took out his phone to snap a picture.

"Well, our work here is finished." He rubbed his hands on his pants, looking around at the dusty old room one last time before heading to the door.

Molly joined him and he flipped the switch, plunging the lab into darkness again before closing the door and locking it behind them.

"You know," he said, glancing sidelong at Molly as they walked away from the building. "We could rent the basement flat from Mrs. Hudson and turn it into our own lab. I always thought about doing it but never got around to it."

"Why didn't you?" she inquired. "I'm sure that would've been so much more convenient for you."

He flushed and mumbled, "I liked going to Bart's to see you."

She smiled and linked her arm through his as they made their way up to the house.


	25. Coq Au Vin

Sherlock let go of Molly when they got to the house, leaning into the door and wiping his feet meticulously on the mat outside of the back door. He turned the handle and poked his head inside calling out, "Are you ready for us?"

There was a muffled noise from the direction of the kitchen that he took for assent so he stepped inside, reaching back and pulling Molly after him when it seemed she was frozen to the spot. He couldn't contain his excitement and picked Molly up, twirling her around, before setting her back on her feet and taking her hand to practically drag her further into the house.

Molly was looking a bit dazed, having realized exactly where she was and what was about to happen. Sherlock hauled Molly into the kitchen where both his parents were busy preparing what smelled like coq au vin.

_Mmmm, mummy's coq au vin. Molly's going to love this._

Sherlock's parents were excellent cooks. Both he and Mycroft had inherited a love of food from them. Granted, Mycroft didn't know how to control that love and Sherlock did, but still, it was one of the few things they shared, even if Sherlock liked to tease Mycroft about it.

"Oh Sherly!" Sherlock winced at the nickname and glanced down at Molly subtly, but she had no reaction to it besides a smile.

"I'm so happy you're here! And this must be Molly!" Sherlock's mother wiped her hands on a dish towel and crossed to envelope Molly in a huge hug. "We've heard so much about you dear! Oh it's too bad Myc couldn't come with Anthea. And John and Mary too! Oh that poor dear must be exhausted! So close to her date now, isn't it?! Well don't just stand there! Come in, have a seat! Sherly, get Molly a drink."

Sherlock let go of Molly and turned to his mother, giving her a peck on the cheek and a hug, extending a hug to his father as well, before reaching into a cabinet and taking down two glasses, one for himself and one for Molly. Turning, he grinned at her and poured water in one and white wine in the other, holding out the wine for her and motioning for her to join them all by the table. She went to stand close to him, taking the glass, and he put an arm around her shoulders.

His father had his hands in some bread dough, but leaned over to kiss Molly on the cheek and wink at her before stage whispering, "Don't mind that old woman, she'll talk your ear off."

Molly giggled and just like that, was charmed.

Sherlock beamed with triumph. Sometimes it was good to have 'normal' parents.

Molly was asking if she could help with anything and his mother was handing her a bowl full of potatoes to peel as Sherlock watched, feeling happier than he could remember in a long time. He might spout about sentiment being a defect, but deep down, he craved it, just like anyone else. And seeing his parents getting along so well with his significant other was gratifying. Especially since Molly was the first woman he'd ever taken home, and if he had his way, she would be the only one.

He sat down at the table and dodged helping whenever one of his parents pushed a bowl his way, making Molly grin and shake her head. She chatted animatedly with Mrs. Holmes about her job, and Sherlock could see the relief on her face that his mother didn't recoil when she talked about dead people. It would hardly be fair if she did, considering what her sons did for a living. One investigates murders, the other starts and prevents wars on a daily basis. Sherlock mentally shrugged. Mummy was open to pretty much anything by now.

Not to mention that he was sure that she had all but given up hope that he would ever take anyone home to meet her.

"Sherly, get off your lazy butt and set the table." His mother swatted him on the back of the head.

He grinned boyishly at Molly and complied. Finally, dinner was served. The four sat around the table and passed the food around, talking happily.

"I'll have to show you some pictures from when he was a boy. He was a menace!" mummy exclaimed, with Mr. Holmes backing her up as Sherlock denied all accusations and vehemently insisted that no pictures should be exposed.

"Oh Sherlock, I have to know what I'm looking forward to someday." Molly turned bright red and clapped her hands over her mouth as soon as the words were out and looked as if she wanted to melt into the floor.

Sherlock stared at her for a moment in shock. _WHAT?_

Luckily, mummy diffused the tension with ease, changing the subject to dessert, a wonderful chocolate soufflé, which Sherlock refused but Molly dug into, possibly to keep her mouth full so she didn't have to speak as much. The blush hadn't quite faded from her cheeks; it lingered for several minutes even after the change of subject. The conversation continued until Sherlock's phone rang.

Ignoring his mother's incredulous, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, why isn't your phone turned off?" he checked the display. It was John and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief and shook his head ever so slightly at Molly whose face had paled, before pocketing his phone, unanswered.

"So sorry mummy," he smiled his most charming smile, then laughed when he saw that his mother was most definitely not fooled.

There was a vibrating noise and Molly flushed. "Oh, that is mine." She checked her phone and looked up at Sherlock, her brow wrinkling. "Was that John a moment ago?" When he nodded, she handed him her phone. "Maybe you should answer it."

Sherlock excused himself and strolled out of the room before accepting the call. "Yes, John?" He winced as his best friend's voice came through the speaker. John was shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Sherlock, Mary's having the baby! Get your arse to the hospital NOW!"

Sherlock clicked the phone shut without even replying. He trotted back into the kitchen, grabbing up his and Molly's coats.

"Come on, Molly, we've got to go."

Mrs. Holmes and Molly both opened their mouths to protest but he cut them off with "Mary's having the baby right now."

Molly hopped up and began putting on her coat, hurriedly telling Sherlock's parents goodbye and thank you and that she most certainly would make Sherlock visit more often. He rushed her out the door, running back inside when he realized he'd forgotten to kiss mummy goodbye. They clambered into the car, their breath steaming the windshield and windows as they headed off towards the city.

"So," Molly gave a nervous giggle. "Your parents." Sherlock didn't take his eyes from the road but stiffened a bit. "They aren't at all what I expected."

He darted his eyes to her at that. "Mmmm, John expressed that same sentiment the first time he met them."

She relaxed into the seat and closed her eyes.

After a beat, he asked, "Is that good or bad?"

"Hmm?" she questioned, sleepily.

"That they aren't what you expected. Is that a good or bad thing?"

She opened her eyes and gazed at him a moment before closing them again and responding, "Oh, a good thing I suppose." She paused and unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned over onto his shoulder. "Only room for one sociopath in my life."

He hid his pleased grin.

Another thought occurred to her and she lifted her head to look at him.

"Sherlock?'

"Yes?" He hummed.

"Mycroft and Anthea?" She raised a brow, disbelieving.

He shook his head, grinning widely. "No, no, no. My mother lives in eternal hope."

She chuckled and resumed her position against his shoulder.

He thought she'd fallen asleep when he felt her stirring against his side.

After a minute, she burrowed into him and whispered, "Sherlock, something is bothering me."

His brow furrowed. "Hmm? What is it?"

"Well, Jim is like you." She stopped and tsked her tongue. "No, wait, that came out wrong. I mean, he doesn't like to repeat himself."

He hummed his agreement and she continued.

"So why is he using the same thing he used against you before? The cipher? It doesn't make sense."

He took in a deep breath before telling her what had been on his mind for a while now.

"I don't think we are dealing with Moriarty, Molly. We're dealing with someone else." He shook his head. "It had to be someone who knew him well though, or they wouldn't be able to imitate his style so well."

She sat up and looked at him, his face lit up by the lights of the streets. They were back in London proper.

"Who then?" she asked.

He glanced down at her. "I have no idea." Sherlock hated having to admit that he really had no clue.

"I thought I destroyed everything and everyone Moriarty left behind. I guess I missed one."

She sat back and they continued the drive in silence.


	26. A Baby, a Breakdown and a Bad Omen

The first thing Sherlock saw was a beige blur before John Watson practically crushed him into a hug before the doing the same to Molly, squeezing an "oof," from the pathologist.

"What happened? Is she alright? It's early, isn't it?" Sherlock spoke quickly, betraying his worry to his friends.

Molly grasped his hand and rubbed her thumb along his in an attempt to soothe him. "It's ok Sherlock, she's term, the baby is considered developed by 37 weeks."

"Did she just spontaneously go into labor?" he questioned the army doctor.

John nodded. "She was complaining all day of back pain. We thought it was caused by the trauma from the explosion last night so she stayed in bed all day. I guess, in a way it was because when we finally realized it was labor and came here, they said that all the stress of yesterday probably triggered the early labor."

_If something goes wrong, this is all my fault. _

"I've got to get back in there, or Mary will kill me." John said, starting to edge towards the doors.

"How is she?" Molly quickly asked, as John made his escape.

"In pain." John turned and fairly ran back through the double doors.

Sherlock sank into a chair in the waiting room, intending to pull Molly down into his lap but she headed over to a coffee machine and proceeded to pour them both a cup, fixing his just how he liked it. It wasn't very good, but the caffeine helped his nerves a bit, as did Molly's presence beside him and her fingers in his hair.

Finally, a couple hours later, John reappeared, a smile that could light up the city on his face. Molly had fallen asleep on Sherlock's shoulder, and he put a finger to his lips as John came into view.

"How are they?" he whispered.

John collapsed into the chair next to Sherlock and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

"They're good. Both good. Mary had a bit of trouble but everything turned out fine and Amanda, oh Sherlock," he paused, tears welling in his eyes, "Sherlock, Amanda is the most beautiful little girl in the world. She's perfect, absolutely perfect."

Forgetting Molly was asleep on the other side of Sherlock, John grabbed his best friend in a hug and hit Molly in the head, startling her awake. Sherlock shot him an evil glare and soothed an alarmed Molly.

"Shh, shh, it's ok. John just punched you in the head by accident. I'll kill for you later. It's ok."

Molly rubbed her face, sleepily smiling at Sherlock, then John.

"Oh, baby? Is baby here?"

Sherlock and John nodded simultaneously.

"She's here, Molly. She and Mary are both fine. Do you want to come see them?"

Molly nodded, grinning excitedly. "Oh yes, please!"

The three stood and Sherlock put his hand on the small of his girlfriend's back as John led them down the halls to Mary's room. He poked his head in first to make sure his wife was decent and then motioned for the other two to enter.

Mary was radiant, even through the exhaustion that was apparent on her face. In her arms, she held a tiny infant. Sherlock hesitated but Molly immediately went to the bedside and began cooing over little Amanda.

John clapped Sherlock on the shoulder and leaned to whisper in his ear, "Molly is gonna be a great mom one day."

Sherlock raised a startled brow at John, his eyes darting back and forth between his girlfriend and the baby who was now in her arms. Abruptly, he turned and walked out of the room.

Sherlock fully expected Molly to run after him. When fifteen minutes passed and there was no sign of her, he began to worry that perhaps he had acted hastily, leaving the hospital room. He paced the waiting room, frantic thoughts rushing through his brain.

_How could I be so stupid? Molly wants a normal life, a family, a husband who can take care of her and be home for dinner. She wants that blasted cat to stay with us forever. _(He didn't really hate Toby. The cat had long since claimed the upper bedroom as his and hardly left it except to eat and use his litter box.)_ I can't be all that for her. I'm not a good enough man. I'll never be John Watson: loving husband and father. I'm not capable of it. I'm a fucking sociopath! Oh great, I'm having a nervous breakdown. What the hell have I gotten myself into?_

Sherlock sighed heavily, entirely failing to notice the small woman leaning against the door frame, silently watching him. He turned, putting both hands flat against the wall and proceeded to quietly beat his head against it.

On the seventh hit, his head contacted with something that was definitely not the wall. It was warm. It was soft. It was… _Molly's hand?_ _When did she get here?_

His head snapped up, and he pressed his lips together, somewhat annoyed at having been caught in such a vulnerable state of mind. He looked down at her, a bit sheepishly as he noticed that she was cross with him. Her hands were on her hips and she opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind.

Before she could get even one word out though, something snapped in Sherlock and he grabbed her, covering her mouth with his.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I won't do that again. I just panicked. I don't know how to be a father and I'm so scared I'll let you down and what if our baby is like me?" he gasped out between frantic kisses.

Molly gently pushed on his chest and he pulled back, staring down at her, wild-eyed.

"Sherlock, calm down. Why are you freaking out?" He shook his head at her, not finding words, and she smiled. "We just started dating, you silly boy. Children are the furthest thing from my mind right now. But for the record," she reached up, twirling the curls at the nape of his neck between her fingers, eliciting a shiver from him, "I think you will make a great father someday."

He gazed down at her, wanting to believe, knowing he would try if she wanted him to.

_Anything for you Molly._

He let her take his hand and guide him back to the maternity room, where he greeted Mary with a kiss on the cheek and awkwardly peered down at the baby.

He had to admit, as far as babies go, Amanda was pretty cute. He was confident that he and Molly could do better though.

He gave Mary a nod of approval, accompanied with a wink and another kiss, this one on the forehead, before he straightened and grasped Molly's hand.

"We'll be going now." Hearing a tsk from her, he added, "I'm sure you are exhausted and need rest."

Mary grinned cheekily at him, obviously amused that the pathologist could make him observe social niceties, and he rolled his eyes at her.

_John tells me when I mess up too. I just elect to ignore him._

He waited while Molly cooed some more at little Amanda and asked Mary about ten times if she needed them to bring her anything when they came to visit the next day.

Just as they were set to leave, a nurse entered with an enormous flower arrangement. It was gorgeous, with huge gerbera daisies framed with ferns and baby's breath. Molly froze, the smile dying from her face. Sherlock glanced back and forth between her and the flowers.

_Come to think of it, those look familiar._

His brow furrowed as Molly grabbed for the envelope tucked into the arrangement. It wasn't a small card, like the ones from the florist's shop, no this one was the size of a greeting card and Sherlock pursed his lips as he recognized the type of envelope.

_Ah, our friend has reemerged._

Molly shakily handed it to him as Mary and John gave each other wary, confused glances. Molly clasped her hands and became very interested in her toes.

_What is her – OH!_

"He gave you these flowers."

It was a statement, not a question, but Molly nodded anyway, still gazing at the floor.

"Jim from IT," he clarified to the baffled new parents. He opened the card and skimmed over it before reading aloud.

**My Dearest Pets,**

**A new addition to the family! How fantastic!**

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Mary grip Amanda a bit tighter and John's fists clench.

**I do hope that our little brush with danger yesterday has no adverse effects on mother or child. Too bad Sherlock brought it on by ignoring me. Blame him.**

**Speaking of Sherlock, I see that you found my little clues that I left for you. Good work. Here is your new set of places.**

Sherlock looked back in the envelope and pulled out two photos, handing them to Molly before he continued.

**This theme is sadness. Something you both will know a lot more about after I've finished with you. Have fun!**

**Love, Me.**

Molly was staring at one of the photos with tears in her eyes. Sherlock moved closer to her and out an arm around her before looking down at the picture. It was a normal looking street and his brow furrowed.

_What is this?_

He ran through what he knew of Molly and lit on the answer after a few seconds.

"Molly, is this where your mother died?" he asked, pointing to the photo in her hand.

She nodded, on hand on her mouth, holding in sobs. He put his arms around her after glancing at the other picture which only showed a tree. He frowned.

"Come on, let's go home," he said, turning a tearful Molly towards the door.

"If you need my help," started John, as they exited.

"No, stay here, you don't need to get involved in this," interrupted Sherlock, shaking his head emphatically.

Mary piped up from the bed, "Seems we already are," pointing towards the flowers.

He shook his head again. "No, you just happened to be the method he used to get to us. If we aren't around, he'll leave you two alone."

He nodded a solemn goodbye to John and Mary and led Molly out of the room.


	27. Written in Red

Sherlock gently shook Molly awake.

"Hey, come on. Wake up Molly."

She groaned and stretched, giving Sherlock a small smile.

"Hello handsome."

The tips of his ears colored and he coughed self-consciously.

"Hi."

She laughed and rolled over, getting out of bed.

He cleared his throat, shifting on the bed to face her as she pulled on her dressing gown.

"Um, I texted Stamford and told him you wouldn't be in today."

She stopped dead and looked at him.

"Oh."

"Yes, I thought you might need some time to yourself today. After we go."

She nodded. "Yes, I probably will. Thank you Sherlock."

Sherlock couldn't help but think her mind was far away as she exited the room. He soon heard the coffee maker come to life and decided he might as well get dressed.

It was going to be a long day and not just for Molly.

Sherlock opened the door to the black car that was parked on the curb outside of the flat. Molly climbed in, narrowly missing bumping her head and he smiled.

"I thought it would be prudent to obtain a car for this endeavor. Not too sure I'd like to take a cab after this."

Molly nodded gratefully and looked out the window, effectively ignoring Sherlock.

The distance between them had been almost tangible all morning. Molly's actions were mechanical. She dressed, washed her face and brushed her teeth, drank her coffee, and tidied up the bedroom with a distant look in her eyes. She was unfocused and detached, not even touching Sherlock the entire morning. The lack of contact shouldn't bother him as much as it did.

Sherlock watched Molly out of the corner of his eye. Her hands were twisted together in her lap and she chewed her lower lip, at one point ripping it and causing it to bleed a bit. She never took her gaze from the passing streets and never said a word to Sherlock. It was driving him crazy but he had no idea how to proceed. He hated to admit it, but he was well out of his area of expertise. He had no clue whether he should leave her to brood or attempt to comfort her. He scanned her body for clues, deciding it was best to leave her alone as her body language was practically screaming for him to stay away.

They finally arrived at their destination, finding, to their surprise, the street was blocked off and completely empty.

_Thank you Mycroft._

His brother had been concerned when Sherlock had told him the reason for needing a car to pick them up, though to the normal person, his demeanor gave nothing away. He hadn't mentioned closing off the street to Sherlock though. The detective was grateful. Not only would it make their job easier, but Molly would have privacy.

He climbed out of the car, circling to open the door for Molly, who beat him to it and was already halfway out before he could get there. He put his hand at the small of back to guide her but she shrugged him off. She began to walk to the center of the street and he followed silently.

_Why is she pushing me away?_

Molly strode down the street with determined steps but stopped abruptly, causing Sherlock to crash into her back. She took another step at the force of him knocking into her and shrieked. Sherlock looked over her shoulder to the ground and saw a large cipher written in red.

Blood.

He choked back a gasp and stared down at the cipher and Molly's shoe, which had a fair amount of the red substance on the sides of it from where she had been forced to step into it. He gently pulled her back away from it and squatted down to examine it. He took out his phone and snapped a photo before dipping his finger into the sticky red liquid.

_Definitely blood. Lots of it too. This cipher has to be a meter and a half wide at least. Maybe, what? Two pints? Whose is it though? Have a sample taken to Barts for Molly to run… No, not Molly. What is that sound? _

He rubbed the blood between his fingers absently. Ignoring the odd sound coming from behind him.

_Need to call Mycroft. Need to analyze blood. Need to go to the tree. Need to figure out which book._

The noise continued behind him and he stood, irritated, and turned on his heel just in time to see Molly collapse to the ground while having a full blown panic attack. She was panting, shallow, quick breaths, her chest heaving, her face pale and she was shivering violently. Sherlock stood, frozen in place, with no idea what to do until Molly suddenly passed out from the lack of oxygen. With a shout, Sherlock scooped her up, fumbling in his pocket for his phone and pressing a speed dial number.

"Yes, brother mine?"

"MYCROFT! MOLLY HAD A PANIC ATTACK AND PASSED OUT! WHAT DO I DO?!"

There was a pause before the older Holmes brother answered.

"How should I know? I'm not a doctor. I'll send someone."

Sherlock clicked his phone off and dialed John. He picked up on the third ring.

"Sherlock?"

"John, John! Molly had a panic attack and passed out! What do I do?"

"Slow down, what? No nevermind, ok is she still out?"

"Yes, she's cold and blue."

"Wrap her in your coat. Did she hit the ground or did you catch her?"

Sherlock cringed. "Umm, she hit the ground," he said, feeling guilty.

He heard a heavy sigh. "Ok, check her head for any injuries and take her pulse."

Sherlock sat down in the middle of the street with Molly draped across his legs and felt gently around on her skull. There were no obvious injuries and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. Her pulse was significantly slower than it had been.

"Doesn't look like there's any damage," he reported to the army doctor.

"Good, good, is someone on the way?"

Sherlock hummed the affirmative, his eyes fixed on Molly's face. "Yes, Mycroft is sending someone."

"Good. Just keep her warm until she wakes up. Then keep her calm. Yes, it's Molly, no, no, she's ok, just a panic attack." The last part was directed to his wife, who Sherlock could barely hear frantically asking questions in the background.

"How do I do that?" Sherlock was exasperated by now, and (if he was honest, which he wouldn't be,) a bit frightened at his lack of control over the situation.

"I don't know, use your imagination," came the response. It was almost as if John thought Sherlock should know how to react when his girlfriend had a major freak out.

Sherlock hung up and let go of Molly to wiggle out of his coat and lay it over her. Brushing his thumb across her lips, he was pleased to see that her breathing had slowed to normal.

He was still sitting with her when Mycroft climbed out of his signature black car, accompanied by two medical personnel and the ever-present, Anthea.

"She's not awake yet! Why isn't she awake?" he screamed at the staff as they jogged over to him.

"Calm down Mr. Holmes. She's suffered a shock. Her system just shut down when she couldn't handle it the stress. She'll be alright."

One of the staffers was busy applying a cool cloth to Molly's forehead and the other was taking her pulse and blood pressure. Mycroft strolled over and looked down at the scene.

"Walk with me brother."

Sherlock shook his head petulantly. "No, not until she wakes up."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Holding onto her is not going to help her Sherlock. Just put her down."

At the exact moment that Sherlock huffed and moved to let go of Molly, he heard a familiar voice shout at him.

"What the hell have you done to Molly?!"

Sherlock raised a brow as he took in the sight of the detective inspector approaching at a fast pace. "Hello Lestrade, nice to see you too."

"You've been dating her three bloody days and she's already injured!"

Sherlock gently lowered Molly and stood, his body tense as he confronted the irate Greg.

"She is not injured," he insisted. "She merely panicked."

"She wouldn't be in this situation if you just left her alone!" Lestrade shouted, dangerously close to Sherlock's face.

Holmes exploded. "Well she wouldn't be with you!"

"She'd be better off if she was!" was the retort.

Sherlock heard Molly groan the second before his fist made contact with Lestrade's jaw. Greg fell back and Sherlock immediately turned towards his pathologist, turning a blind eye to the detective inspector.

It felt rather good to expend some of the pent up stress he was experiencing.

Of course, that proved to be a mistake.

Molly sat up rather quickly, her eyes wide and Sherlock grinned at her just as Greg tackled him to the ground. The shorter man landed a solid blow to Sherlock's face as they grappled; tumbling over in the street. They rolled straight over the mark on the ground, covering them both in blood but they barely noticed.

Sherlock reared back to punch Greg again but felt a crack to the top of his head. Seconds later, another landed on Lestrade's shoulder and both men looked up to see Mycroft wielding his umbrella like a club.

His calm, almost bored tone, cut through their heavy breathing. "Children, this is neither the time nor the place for this."

They both shot annoyed glares up at him but Sherlock grudgingly nodded, ignoring Lestrade and crawling over to where Molly sat silently observing them. He reached for her hand and was puzzled when she backed away from him, scooting across the pavement. He looked down and realized what a sight he must make.

He was covered in the blood from the mark on the ground and there was a rip in his shirt. He sheepishly smiled at her and was rewarded with a softening of her eyes as the fear left them. He unbuttoned and removed his shirt, uncaring that he was in the middle of the street, and tossed it aside, groaning at what would undoubtedly be bruised ribs.

He shot her a brilliant grin, choosing to disregard the angry huff behind him. Molly shook her head at him and smiled apologetically at Greg.

_What is she doing that for? She didn't hear what he said! He deserved it._

Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted.

Mycroft tapped the ground with his umbrella.

"Feeling better Doctor Hooper?"

Molly gave a weak nod.

"Alright, Sherlock, I'm taking you and Molly home."

All three men jumped when Molly suddenly shouted, "No!"

Sherlock gazed down at her puzzled as she bit her lip, uncomfortable with the attention.

Her voice was significantly softer as she gave her reason. "Umm, the blood, we need to check it out?"

Sherlock stared at her, dumbfounded, a slow smile gracing his features.

"Yes, we do indeed."

Lestrade threw his hands up in the air. "Sherlock! She just passed out for fuck's sake. Give the poor woman a break!"

The consulting detective narrowed his eyes at the detective inspector and for a moment it seemed another brawl would break out but Molly's quiet voice piped up to diffuse the situation.

"It's ok, Greg. I want to get this over with. It's easier if I go ahead and run a sample."

He reluctantly nodded at her and Sherlock clapped his hands with glee.

_That's my girl._

"Mycroft, if you would be so kind as to drop us at Bart's? After I change clothes, of course."

His brother frowned but gave a curt nod. Sherlock helped a shaky Molly to her feet and gave a malicious grin to Lestrade as they passed him.

"Yeah, well, I'll just clean up here then…"


	28. Best Laid Plans

"Ah, Molly, is that test done yet?"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope as the pathologist walked through the door and into the lab, snapping gloves off of her hands. She paused, giving him a dazed look, before slightly shaking her head, as if to bring herself back to the present.

"Yes."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. He didn't like Molly's tone.

"What's wrong?" he demanded. "What are the results?"

Molly dug in her pocket and handed Sherlock the results of the scans she had run on the blood found on the street where her mother died. Sherlock studied her as he took the paper.

_Perhaps I should've insisted she go home. She's been crying again._

He wanted nothing more than to wipe the tears from her cheeks but she hid them from him as well as she could, only allowing them to fall when they were in separate rooms. Sherlock had felt sick to his stomach when it hit him that she was hiding because she was afraid he would be upset with her for showing sentiment. He couldn't blame her but he sure would like to prove her wrong.

Sherlock smiled at Molly, who returned it with little enthusiasm and he glanced down at the paper in front of him.

His smile faded as he read the results and realized exactly why his lover was so upset.

"You're sure?"

She nodded, tear threatening to spill over again.

Sherlock stood quickly, pulling her into his arms and petting her hair.

"No, no, don't cry, Molly. No need to cry. He's just doing this to mess with us. It's ok."

"I just don't understand. How could he get hold of that? And that much of it! You don't give blood often, and never two pints at a time. Even though it's been frozen, Sherlock, that's your blood and somehow he got access to it."

Sherlock's fist clenched around the paper as he continued to hold Molly, swaying gently back and forth. An errant thought stuck him that he really shouldn't be this comfortable with her proximity and obvious distress but he brushed it aside. He needed to think, really he did, but his mind was filled with his pathologist and the overwhelming urge to calm and reassure her that everything would be fine. Though, at this point, he wasn't sure if it was the truth or not.

Reluctantly, he pressed a kiss to her hairline and pulled back.

"I need to think, Molly. And I can't do it with you so close. I'm distracted."

He hated the look he saw in her eyes after he finished. The combination of hurt and resignation killed him. Like she was waiting for him to say that he didn't want her anymore. He took her hands in his.

"Don't mistake me. I just need some time alone to think. Nothing more. Mycroft's car is still waiting outside. Go back to Baker Street and I'll come for you in a little while. We still have to visit," he paused, searching for the right words, "the other place."

She turned to go, but he pulled her back, dropping a light kiss on her lips.

"Are you alright? After earlier?"

Molly visibly swallowed. "I just, I haven't been there since mom died. I actively avoid that part of town. It felt awful standing there. Knowing that was the last place my mother was alive. Knowing that she was taken from me in the exact spot I was standing."

Sherlock nodded and Molly left without another word.

He sighed. He wasn't lying when he told Molly that he needed to think. He did. Hard.

He knew there was only one way that his blood could've ended up in their tormentor's hands. It was a painful, (emotionally and physically,) memory but he knew that was his solution.

While traveling the world, unraveling Moriarty's criminal web, Sherlock had won most of this battles. But he had lost a few. The worst, in Romania, he had been held captive for six days, during which, he was drugged and beaten on several occasions. He sported various scars on his lean body from the incident. Sherlock surmised that on one particular occasion when he had awoken from a drug induced stupor feeling weaker than he should have, that they had taken a large amount of blood from him. At the time, he was too focused on survival to worry about it. He guessed now, in a roundabout way, that blood had come back to him.

He was unnerved by the discovery. Not because he was psyched out by the use of his own blood to paint a cipher, no, he knew the figure they were up against had a flair for the dramatic, if only to mimic Moriarty's style. No, Sherlock was off kilter because the use of his blood showed just how far in advance this was planned. This particular series of events had been in the works for years, maybe even since Moriarty's death on the roof.

Sherlock was now one hundred percent positive that Moriarty was, in fact, dead. He was even more sure, though, that whoever was after him now, would stop at nothing to get their revenge.

The last thing that Sherlock knew without a doubt was that he would protect Molly Hooper at any cost.

Molly looked up from her reading as Sherlock entered the flat. Her eyes were still a bit swollen but she seemed calmer than she had been.

"Solve the riddle?" she asked, putting aside her e-reader and turning to face him.

"I don't much care for riddles. Give me a good murder any day." Sherlock called over his shoulder as he rummaged through the fridge, finding nothing appealing, if you didn't count the decaying foot, which wasn't very appetizing.

"Let's get something to eat on the way to site two."

Molly smiled with approval. "You're eating a lot more now, Sherlock. You used to never eat on a case."

Sherlock stopped dead. _She's right. What the hell is wrong with me? I never eat while I'm working, digestion slows me down too much. But I've been eating like a… normal human lately._ He shook his head. Many things had changed since his brief exile and he didn't have time to examine them all at the moment.

He watched as Molly donned her coat and scarf before following her down the stairs. Mycroft's car pulled up after a moment, Sherlock having sent a text when he arrived at Baker Street to collect Molly. After giving directions to go to the small Chinese place he favored at the moment, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and scrutinized Molly. She fidgeted uncomfortably under his gaze but said nothing, simply waiting for him to decide to speak.

"Molly, you said that you haven't been to that street since your mother died, correct?"

She nodded her affirmation, choosing to remain silent.

He closed his eyes, losing himself in his mind. _Today's lesson is sadness. Death. The first real pain we experienced in life. He's forcing us to return to the site of that pain. But why? _

He was annoyed that he couldn't come up with a solid answer to that question.

Sherlock drifted off into his thoughts, not to come out until Molly shook his arm when they arrived at the restaurant.


	29. Redbeard

Sherlock tugged Molly's hand impatiently.

"Come on, Molly, we haven't got all day."

The petite woman struggled to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. At that moment, he was dragging her over a hill at his parent's estate. They were far out of sight of the house by now, having already walked a good distance. It was chilly, being late afternoon already. Sherlock let go of Molly's hand to let her pull her coat closer around her small body. Without thinking about it, he slipped off his own coat and dropped back to drape it over her.

"The cold is bothering you more than me right now," he said curtly, interrupting her attempted protest.

Given, Sherlock wasn't a fan of the cold, (hence the ever-present coat,) but he was getting more agitated by the second and he couldn't have Molly shivering, or worse, her teeth chattering, while he was trying to rein in his urge to bite her head off. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't really need John to tell him that it was bad when he mistreated Molly. Maybe years ago he did, but now he was hyperaware of every emotion that flitted across her face.

The walk was silent and uneasy. It was the most awkward he'd felt in her presence for weeks. _Honestly, this shouldn't be this uncomfortable. _Sherlock snorted, startling Molly who glanced at him wide-eyed. _It's just some place from years ago. I don't know why this was even one of the selected places. It's not like Molly's. She lost her mother there. It almost broke her in two. Not like it even had that much of an effect on me._

He hated lying to himself.

Sherlock stalked along, the grass brushing against his shoes and the bottom of his pants, leaving the bright green blades of early spring stuck to his clothes. The sun was just above the horizon, ahead, and a little to the left of them, casting golden and pink rays across the evening sky. Had Sherlock been paying attention, he would've thought it was beautiful.

As it was, he wasn't even paying attention to where they were headed, just letting his feet take him there of their own accord. They knew the way well, even if it had been years since he visited.

Abruptly, he stopped, looking up at a large tree.

Sherlock thought he would be able to go, collect the data and leave, without looking back.

He had never been so wrong.

He was unaware of collapsing to his knees and Molly's little gasp of fright as he gazed down at the carved name in the trunk of the tree, near the base. Sherlock reached out with a shaking hand, his fingers tracing the etchings in the wood. First, the cipher, burnt into the soft wood, _(acid, can't ever be erased, directly over the top of the other so I can't ever forget,) _then the name, carved deep into the side of the tree by someone who either didn't know what they were doing, or couldn't focus on their task. The latter was the truth, as a young Sherlock had been blinded by tears when he carved the name of his beloved Redbeard into the tree.

He unconsciously curled up into a ball at the base of the tree, an echo of the frightened, sad, little boy who did the same all those years ago. Sherlock reached out for Molly and dimly felt her take his hand and settle down next to him, cuddling into his side, covering them both with the Belstaff as she shivered against the cool February ground.

Tears blurred Sherlock's vision.

"Molly, this is Redbeard. You would've liked him. Even though you like cats better. Redbeard was so good. He was my good boy. Mycroft never liked him. Mycroft never liked me much either. He was born old. Never wanted to play games like I did. Couldn't see the point in pretending. Redbeard did. It was just me and Redbeard. He never questioned me. He was loyal. Like John but different. Redbeard was mine, all mine."

He choked a bit on the words that were tumbling out so fast he couldn't even tell if his mouth was moving.

"I found him down by the road when I was really young. I'd followed Mycroft down there. I was always following Mycroft where I shouldn't. His mum was dead there on the road. Hit by a car. I'd turned to go back to the house and nearly stepped on the little bloke. He was so tiny. So fragile. I took him home and Mycroft said he was going to die. Mummy hit him on the shoulder and helped me feed him with a tiny bottle. Mycroft said I was being stupid to get attached to an animal. That I should forget it and not waste my time. Mummy helped me take care of him until he got big enough to take care of himself. We used to play down here. This was our ship, the tree was the mast. I made a captain's hat for Redbeard. He shook it off every time I put it on him."

He continued, telling Molly all about his best friend.

"When we met other children, it didn't go so well. Mummy kept us at home and schooled us herself for several years. Mummy's clever, not like me and certainly not like Mycroft, but she's smart, and wanted to teach us on her own. So she did for a while. Mycroft thought I was stupid and teased me mercilessly about it so I was excited to meet other children when we finally had to start going to school with them. It was horrible. I wanted to impress them, to be smart. I asked the teacher why she was sleeping with one of the girl's father in front of the whole class. They hated me. I ran away from school that first day and came home to get Redbeard. We went down to the lake and floated out in the boat, and wouldn't go back to shore when they found us. It was the best afternoon ever."

He smiled ruefully.

"I suppose that's when I decided that all I needed was my pup."

"Once, I went out into the woods and got lost. I had had a fight with Mycroft, those were frequent. It was the dead of winter and getting late and I was cold and hungry and so lost. And Redbeard left me. I thought he was abandoning me and I couldn't understand why. He was the only one who was always there for me. He was my only friend. So I curled up on the ground and cried myself to sleep. Then when I opened my eyes, Redbeard was standing over me and licking my face and my parents were there to take me home. He went to get help for me."

Sherlock smiled fondly through his tears.

"And then, one day, he got sick. He got skinny and wouldn't eat. He tried to follow me. To play with me. But something was wrong. He just didn't have the strength. I went to school and came home and called his name. He didn't come. He never ignored me. As soon as I saw my parents waiting at the kitchen table, I knew. He was gone. I asked anyway. Mummy tried to tell me it was for the best. That they'd had him put down out of mercy. That was the last time I cried in front of my parent's. I was nine."

He sighed, resting his free hand across his eyes and rubbing at them a little. They stung from the continuous flow of tears.

"I snuck into the vet's office that night. It was the first time I actually picked a lock. I'd practiced, yeah, but it was the first time I actually did it. I found where they had Redbeard and I took him. And I brought him out here. To our tree. I buried him here, Molly. I couldn't let them take him away from here. I couldn't let them take him away from me. Mycroft found me here. He peeled me up off of the ground, off of the grave and carried me back to the house."

He stopped.

"Molly, I didn't want to care about anyone because I knew if I did, it would break me to lose them. Just like it broke nine year old me to lose Redbeard. He was my only friend until I met John. And losing John would hurt so bad. Losing Lestrade, losing Mrs. Hudson, losing Mary or Mummy or Father or even Mycroft. It would hurt. But losing you, Molly, losing you would kill me. I can't live without you now and I don't want to. You're all I think about. I can't focus when you're with me because all I can think about is you. Your scent, your taste. How you stretch in the morning when you first wake up. The way you lick the spoon after you stir your tea. The ridiculous bun on your head when you take those century-long baths. Everything about you has wormed its way inside of me and I'll never be rid of it. I'll never be rid of you. And it's simultaneously the best and the worst feeling in the world. Because if I were to lose you, I would lose myself. And I wouldn't be able to survive it."

He waited for an answer, and shifted to look at her when none came. She was watching him, a look of concern on her face and he found himself confused. Didn't she have anything to say to all of that?

"Molly?" he questioned, hoping she wasn't in shock.

"Sherlock, are you ok?"

"Ummm, yes?" He squirmed uncomfortably. The cold had seeped into his bones when he wasn't paying attention. And it was getting rather dark.

"You've just been laying there for over an hour." Molly shivered, rubbing her hands over her arms in an attempt to warm herself up.

He sat up and looked down at her. "You mean I haven't said anything?"

Molly's expression became puzzled, her brow furrowing in bewilderment. "No, Sherlock, you haven't said a word."

_Damn._


	30. The Search Begins

**Thanks so much to everyone who has read and reviewed this! I'm so blown away by all the support! Seriously, you guys are fantastic. **

**To the person who asked why there weren't many reviews, I did publish a large chunk of this at one time so most of the chapters don't have many comments on them.**

**Also, I really have to thank my wonderful creative partner, Lisape, who is constantly giving me brilliant ideas for this, and other fics. I know that none of this would have happened without her encouragement.**

* * *

Sherlock stomped upstairs, his mood soured by the fuss his parents made over Molly at dinner. She followed, hiding her smile at his sulky demeanor.

The detective hadn't spoken much since they left the spot where Redbeard was buried. He caught Molly giving him concerned glances throughout dinner with his parents but had chosen to remain silent. It had taken a monumental effort on his part to admit everything to Molly, only to discover that he'd actually done the same thing he had done when John asked him to be the best man. Namely, he hadn't spoken aloud. So Molly still had no idea of the depth of his feeling for her.

_I'll tell her later._

"I think it would be prudent to begin our search for the book we need to decode these ciphers." He stalked into the sitting room, his hands folded behind his back. When he turned, Molly had a resigned look on her face.

"I suppose that means I can't work tomorrow again?" she questioned, already knowing what his answer would be.

"I think it would be best if you didn't. Not until we get this taken care of." He cleared his throat, beginning to gather armfuls of books that were thrown around the room.

"I had Mycroft's men bring all your books over here from your old flat. They are in the boxes there." He pointed to the couch where there were several brown boxes.

Molly heaved a sigh and stuck her bottom lip out.

"This can't wait until the morning? I know you don't sleep that much but I'm exhausted, Sherlock." She made a show of being too tired to walk to the couch, dragging her feet across the ground as she fought a smile. Sherlock thought she looked adorable.

_What was I doing? Oh, right, books. Case. Dammit._

He ignored her display and turned to the desk, spreading his books out.

"No, it cannot wait. We need to find the book. This can't go on much longer." He pulled a paper from his jacket pocket and peered at it, his lips moving, but no sound was issued. After a moment, he whirled around on his heel.

"Don't bother with any book that has less than, oh, say five hundred and fifty pages." He spun back around, sorting his books into piles.

Molly sighed again and he heard the shuffling of the boxes on the couch. There was a rip of tape and Molly began digging through her own books, placing them in stacks of useful and not. After a moment, and another opening of a box, Sherlock heard a scream and a distinct thump. He turned, halfway across the room already to see Molly had fallen backwards over the coffee table and was rapidly scooting along the floor, back towards him.

He glanced up, looking for the cause of her distress and saw that one of her boxes appeared to be empty from that angle. His lips pursed and his eyes narrowed.

"One of these things is not like the others," he hummed under his breath, gently extracting his foot from Molly's fierce grip as she sat on the floor.

He gingerly padded over to the boxes and peered inside. Another envelope and,

_What's this?_

Sherlock pulled out a wrapped package and a tiny velvet ring box. He frowned, opting to open the ring box first. He turned towards Molly, setting the package down on the counter and opened the jewelry case gently. It popped open with a snap and he examined the ring inside.

_Pretty, but too much for Molly. Too big, too shiny, why am I thinking about what kind of ring would look good on Molly's finger?_

He shook his head slightly, as if to rid himself of the thought, and handed the box down to the pathologist, who took one look and dropped the box like it burned her, emitting a strangled yelp as she did so.

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he glanced back and forth from the box, now on the floor, to Molly, who was as pale as death. Suddenly, it clicked.

"Molly, do you recognize that ring?"

She nodded fearfully, her eyes never leaving the little blue case. She was watching it as if it was a snake that might bite her at any moment.

"Whose is it?" Sherlock inquired, a bit inpatient with her fear.

_It's just a ring for God's sakes, Molly._

"It's my mother's," she replied in a quavering voice. Her lip trembled and tears formed in her eyes.

"Nonsense. It can't be." Sherlock reached over the table and picked up the box again, scrutinizing the ring carefully.

_Hmmm, not her mother's, but our friend as taken steps to make it look as much like the original as possible. I wonder…_

Sherlock searched through his mind palace, looking for the layout of Molly's flat. When he found it, he pushed the door open and stood in her sitting room, glancing all around. He finally found what he was looking for; a photo of Molly's parents on their engagement day, with her Mother proudly showing off her new ring.

"Molly, someone has been in your flat."

The woman on the floor looked up, startled.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"There is a photo in your sitting room of your mother showing off this ring, or rather the original. Someone used that photo as a reference to have one made that appears to be the same. It's isn't really your mother's, only a copy. It's psychological warfare, Molly."

His mind flitted back to the other package and he knew before opening it what would be inside.

Sherlock unwrapped the cheerful red paper slowly, revealing an exact replica of Redbeard's leather collar. Sherlock's uncle had been a leatherworker in his youth and had made his nephew a custom collar for his beloved pet.

Sherlock held it for a moment, staring down at it, feeling the leather between his fingers. The design as almost exactly the same as he remembered, a motif of celtic knots all the way around. It was distressed to look old, as the original had, and even had some mud stains on it. Sherlock had no doubt that if he were to analyze the mud, it would have come from the area he grew up in.

He shuddered before gently placing it back in the box and withdrawing the envelope. He weighed it in his hands, then opened it. As he suspected, it contained two more photos. First, he read the scrap of paper that was tucked between them.

**NEXT LESSON : ESCAPE**

His brow wrinkled in confusion.

_Escape? What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?_

He picked up the pictures, looking from one to the other.

_Oh, of course._

One of the photos was his grave, the black stone glinting in the sunlight. The other was the armchair that Molly favored in her favorite café.

_Escape. What we do to escape our problems. Molly goes to the café to read and drink hot chocolate when she is troubled. I faked my death to escape the Moriarty issue. Escape._

He straightened and turned to Molly, smiling.

"Well, it seems as if we have our chores for tomorrow."

She silently held out her hand for the pictures, but he surprised her by grabbing it and pulling her to her feet, crushing her tiny body against his much larger one as he sought her lips.

He smiled against her mouth as she melted into the kiss, opening her mouth for him when his tongue swiped across her bottom lip, demanding entrance. Before he even realized it, he was walking her backwards and pressing her bum against the cold surface of the kitchen counter. He nudged her legs apart, putting himself into the space between them and ground against her, bringing a soft moan from her. He pulled back long enough to pull her shirt up over her head and began kissing down her neck to her shoulder as his clever fingers worked at the clasp to her bra. She turned her head, giving him better access to the long expanse of her creamy skin and he latched onto it, sucking a dark mark into her skin.

He stepped away after a few minutes, taking his bra with her. Molly was a wreck; her breathing heavy, eyes half closed, face flushed. Sherlock ran a finger over her kiss stung lips, knowing he looked much the same as she did. She opened her eyes and the hunger he saw there mirrored his own.

He grinned, an almost feral look, as he wrapped his arms around her, encouraging her to, in turn, wrap her legs around his waist, which she did.

Sherlock picked up his Molly and made his way to his room, anxious to bury himself inside her and forget everything else.


	31. Rude Wake Up

"Morning?" a voice called out from the door to 221B.

Molly shot straight up in bed, clutching the sheet around her, and began shaking Sherlock, who merely groaned and wrapped an arm around her waist in a futile attempt to pull her back down. He winced as he felt her tiny fist hit his upper arm and groggily opened one eye to glare at her.

"It's John!" she stage whispered, and he groaned again.

"Ignore him, he'll go away." Sherlock tried to pull her back down again and she giggled.

"Sherlock, no, go see what he wants." She pulled at him until he shot her a dirty look and stood up, jerking the sheet from around her body and wrapping himself in it before he exited the door, her incredulous voice ringing out behind him, "Put some clothes on first!"

He smirked, thinking how many times he had walked around the flat with nothing but the sheet during the time John was living at Baker Street, and called back through the closed door, "Why bother? You'll just take them off of me as soon as he is gone!"

Hearing her shocked gasp, he made his escape into the kitchen.

"Morning John." Sherlock nodded at his former flat mate. "Coffee?"

John rolled his eyes at the sheet but made no comment on it. He gestured to the sitting room. "This looks familiar."

Sherlock glanced over at the piles of books stacked on every surface and nodded. "Another case, another book search. This time it should be easier though. It's obviously a book we both own, and has to be at least five hundred and fifty pages."

"I won't even ask how you know all that." John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So what now?"

Sherlock handed him a mug of coffee, simultaneously sipping his own, and crossed to the couch, picking up the photos and wordlessly handing them to his friend. John examined them a minute before laying them back down on the coffee table.

"Sherlock, how long is this going to last? I don't know whether I can leave Mary's side anymore. Are you sure that you're actually trying to catch this guy?"

Sherlock eyed the doctor, his face hard. "Why wouldn't I be trying to find him?" he asked coolly.

John sighed and lowered his voice a bit, leaning in confidentially. "You know Molly isn't going to leave you when this is over, right? It's ok to end it."

"You're an idiot if you think I'm prolonging this, John!" Sherlock snarled. "You really think I'm afraid I'm going to lose her? You really think I would let anything keep me from solving a case? Especially when the people I care for are being threatened? I died for you, John! I killed for your family! And we are only friends! What wouldn't I do for Molly?!" By the time he finished, Sherlock was practically screaming at a shocked John, who was backing away almost imperceptibly.

"Alright, alright. I just wanted to make sure. No need to yell mate."

"Yes, well, you know how much I hate stupidity." Sherlock replied, with a shrug, his mood swinging back to calm instantly.

"Yeah, cheers." John rolled his eyes before looking around again. "So, need some help?"

Sherlock raised a brow. "Already bored with family life, John?" he smirked.

The doctor pursed his lips. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response. Tell you what, I'll dig around the books while you and Molly go get the other clues."

Sherlock nodded and stalked back into the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee which he doctored up and took with him to his bedroom.

He cracked open the door and saw Molly. Or rather, her bum, as the woman herself was busy digging around under his dresser, searching for, he assumed, her discarded clothes from the night before.

"Your shirt and bra are still in the kitchen, if you're looking for them." He nonchalantly leaned against the door frame, his arms folded together with the mug of coffee tucked under his elbow and a smug grin on his face.

Molly popped up with a surprised squeak. "Oh Sherlock, don't scare me like that!" When she realized what he had said, she blushed crimson. "John didn't see my clothes in there, did he?"

"He didn't mention it if he did." Sherlock held out the cup, offering it to her. She stood and reached for it, but he raised his arm at the last minute and grabbed her with the other, pulling her close and bending his head to kiss her heatedly. He separated himself after a moment, taking pride in the dazed look on Molly's face. "Here you go." He pressed the mug into her hands. "I'll go get you some clothes."

He dropped a kiss to her cheek and left the room, heading through the kitchen and sitting room, then up the stairs to the spare bedroom. He dug around a little, coming up with a pair of trousers and a jumper that weren't terribly large. A bit more searching and he had socks, and a matching set of bra and knickers. He smiled, pleased with himself, and went back down the stairs, passing a bewildered John with a mischievous grin and a shake of the pile of clothes in his arms.

Moly was sitting on his bed, sipping the coffee, her hair drawn up into a messy bun. She eyed him as he deposited her clothes onto the bed beside her.

"Ta." She set down her cup, and busied herself with getting dressed. "We're off to the café now, right?" He nodded, already knowing what she would say next.

"Yes, you may eat breakfast there."

She smiled. "Great." She pulled her jumper over her head. "So what does John want? I heard you yelling but I couldn't make out what you were saying."

"Oh, he just came to see if we needed any help. I told him to sort the books while we go find the ciphers. That'll save us a headache." He opened the door for her to exit the room when she finished dressing.

"Good morning John!" Molly chirped, happily, smiling at the man standing in the sitting room, glancing helplessly around him at the mountains of books. He looked like he had just realized he was getting the raw end of the deal, but was used to it.

He smiled up at Molly, a hint of wonder in his eyes. Sherlock realized that his friend was thinking of his earlier words of what he would do for the pathologist. He strategically placed his arm over her shoulder, giving John further evidence that he meant what he said.

Molly was chattering away at John, asking how Mary and little Amanda were doing this morning. He grinned back at her and Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowing that if he didn't interfere, that they would never get out of the flat.

"Everyone's fine, Molly, let's go." He tugged on her hand.

She playfully hit him on the shoulder. "Play nice, Sherlock." Molly winked at him cheekily and he was tempted to throw her over his shoulder and carry her back to the bedroom but they had things to do, dammit, and he couldn't let himself get distracted, even if her scent was driving him crazy and all he could think about were her lips wrapped around his cock.

Just as he made up his mind to take her back to his room to ravish her, she took a step towards the door and he snapped out of it, shaking himself like he had suddenly gotten a chill.

"Alright, alright, let's go." She led him down the stairs and out the door. He hailed a taxi and Molly gave directions to her favorite café.

Sherlock sulked the entire ride there.

_I cannot get distracted. I cannot get distracted. I cannot get- dammit, Molly is distracting me! _

Sherlock glowered. He knew that objectively, he was as brilliant as ever, but now that he had Molly, he found himself less in control of his mind. It wandered without his consent. All too often, he found himself thinking about his pathologist when he should be dwelling on other things. He wouldn't let her go. Not now. But he needed to regain control of his mind. If he couldn't do that, he wouldn't be able to guarantee he wouldn't make a mistake that would cost them all dearly.


	32. A Rose By Any Other Name

**Thanks so much to all the followers and reviewers! You guys make my day fantastic! **

**(On a side note, I will try and continue updating as regularly as I do now, but be warned, I'm working on two other stories at the same time, one being a frozen!omegaverse!au. I'm a glutton for punishment haha)**

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Sherlock held the door open for Molly as they entered the cheery little café on the corner. He resisted the urge to scurry over to the chair in question and followed her to the counter, listening as she ordered her coffee (with hazelnut crème and sugar) and a scone and chimed in that he wanted a coffee as well, black, two sugars. He paid and motioned for Molly to lead the way to a table, which she did.

She glanced over at her chair. It was a comfortable looking, brown leather monstrosity, and he could just imagine her curled up in it, sipping her drink, with her nose in a book, perhaps wrapped up in a throw. He made a mental note to find her one like it for the flat.

"Drink your coffee first. It can wait." He sipped his own and raised a brow at her incredulous stare. "What?"

"I don't think I've ever heard you put something before a case. Especially food!"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well, we can't have you complaining about being hungry while we're out looking for clues, can we?"

Molly took a bite of her scone and chewed it slowly before saying, "It never mattered to you if I was hungry before."

"Yes it did! I brought you crisps!" he retorted, feeling distinctly uncomfortably now.

"Ah yes, crisps. I remember now." She took a sip of her coffee and Sherlock's bad mood melted when he caught the grin that indicated she was just teasing him. They finished their drinks in silence but somehow Sherlock found himself holding her hand across the table. He looked down at it in surprise. He had been completely unconscious of the action.

Molly smiled up at him and he grinned back at her.

_Why on earth did I think that living without her was better?_

He cleared his throat, glancing back over to the chair and he asked, "So, why do you come here?"

She glanced at him, a bit startled by the question but Molly pursed her lips thoughtfully after a second, before gesturing around. "I guess it's comforting. It smells homey and it's quiet so I can think or read or whatever. Plus, it's far from work and my flat so I'm removed from everything."

"You mean I wouldn't find you if I needed something from Bart's." He narrowed his eyes at her. "So this is where you went those times I couldn't find you. That's cheating, Doctor Hooper." He stood and held his hand out to her, ignoring her smug grin at his admission that there were times he couldn't figure out where she had gone.

"Alright, let's see about this chair." He led her over to it and they stood staring at it for a beat before Sherlock turned it around. Sure enough, there was a cipher cut into the back of it, the leather ripped jaggedly. "Well this will need to be replaced." He pulled out his notepad and pen and scribbled down a copy of it.

Before leaving, Sherlock asked the owner a few perfunctory questions, all of which were answered exactly as he thought they would be. No one saw anyone come in and fool with the chair, and the cameras caught nothing throughout the night. Just as Sherlock suspected. After all this time, there was no way their enemy would slip up with something as simple as this.

An hour later found them at Sherlock's grave. The stone remained there, even though the man had been resurrected for over a year. Sherlock couldn't fathom Molly's hesitance to approach the tombstone, considering she had known all along that he wasn't there.

Of course, the detective knew that those years of absence had left as much a mark on Molly as on his other friends. Perhaps even more of one because Molly had known he survived the fall but wasn't privy to any information other than that. Mycroft hadn't kept her informed and she had to live her life unable to share her secret and unsure that he remained alive. She had no way of knowing if he was alright or if he had met his fate at the hands of one of the many members of Moriarty's network of criminals.

Sherlock sighed and wrapped his arm protectively around his pathologist's waist as they ambled towards the black stone. He would forever regret the selfishness that led him to put her in the position she had been in. And it WAS selfishness. Mycroft easily could've found someone else to do his 'autopsy.' It was Sherlock who wanted Molly to be the one to help him. He wanted her to know that he was alive. He didn't want to break her like that. Even more than that, he wanted a reason to come home. Sherlock wanted someone to keep the light on for him, so to speak. And he knew that Molly would do that for him because she had always loved him.

Now that he thought about it though, he knew that he had asked her because he had loved her as well, and couldn't let go of his pride long enough to tell her so. He had foolishly hoped that she would wait for him without him having to give her a shred of a reason to, and he was stupid enough to be hurt to find, when he returned, that she had moved on. It was his own fault. Sherlock was brave enough to give up his life and reputation and disappear from the world in order to defeat his arch-nemesis, but he wasn't brave enough to tell the woman he loved that he felt for her. He huffed, frustrated with himself. He still wasn't that brave.

In a way, going off to destroy Moriarty's legacy was a relief for Sherlock. He was getting dangerously close to taking Molly for himself before he left and that had terrified him. The way she leaked into every part of his mind palace was disturbing to him. She was like the wallpaper. Essential to every room but something that wasn't blatant or overbearing. Molly was just there. Everywhere. Before he left, it scared him but while he was gone, traveling the world, it was a comfort to him. SHE was a comfort to him.

Sherlock shook his head. _I am a ridiculous man. I can deduce anything about anyone but when it comes to myself, I'm at a loss._

They arrived at the site and he glanced around. There was no sign of a cipher and he wondered what their 'friend' was playing at this time. His brow wrinkled at the flash of blue, crimson and yellow that lay across the grave itself. Flowers.

Sherlock reached down and gingerly picked up the bouquet, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the flowers that made up the bunch. There were several and it his mind raced through what he knew of the language of flowers, the churning in his gut growing stronger as he identified each and their meaning.

_Cyclamen, a pink one, resignation or goodbye. Not good. Harebell, grief. Very not good. Dark red rose, mourning. Marigold, cruelty. This just keeps getting worse._

His eyes widened as he identified the last two.

_Monkshood, beware of a deadly foe, and the black rose. Death._

His blue eyes darted up to meet Molly's brown ones. They darkened with concern as she met his gaze, no doubt seeing the panic in his face. Her eyes flitted to the flowers, her brow furrowing with confusion. She obviously recognized a couple of them but not the whole bouquet.

"Sherlock, what is it? What's wrong?"

Sherlock ignored her, choosing instead to drop the bunch on the ground and plant his foot on top of it, grinding it into the dirt with his heel. He circled the stone and his eyes narrowed when he saw no cipher. He glanced around, becoming increasingly frustrated, until he felt a tap on his shoulder. The detective froze and his eyes followed the line that his pathologist was pointing. There, carved into the tree that he had hidden behind when John had been at the grave, was the marker he was searching for. He pulled out his notepad and sketched it before grabbing Molly's hand and practically dragging her out of the cemetery.

Just as they got to the gate, his phone rang.


	33. A Hole Where Your Heart Should Be

Sherlock frowned down at this display of his phone before deciding to answer.

"Holmes." He was terse, still upset from the last encounter he'd had with the man.

"Sherlock, I think you need to see this." Greg's voice came through the speaker, sounding a bit breathless. _No, sick? Definitely nauseous. Why the hell is he nauseous?_

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Lestrade? You know I'm not taking cases right now." He thought he'd told the older man that, had he forgotten?

"I know, I know, I just- You'll want to see this one, trust me." There was a sigh and Sherlock could picture Greg's face, careworn and weary, new lines there that weren't visible before this whole thing began.

Sherlock sighed and acquiesced, listening as the Detective Inspector gave directions to the crime scene and paling a bit when he recognized the address. He whispered instructions to the driver and helped Molly in, turning to her once they were settled in the car.

"Lestrade needs me to take a look at something. Do you mind?" he asked, his throat a little scratchy, a little dry.

She shook her head at him, taking in his expression with a touch of worry apparent on her face. "No, of course not. Did he say what it was?" she asked.

He repeated her motion. "No, only that I needed to see it." The detective ran his hands through his hair, agitated. The flowers had done a number on his calm demeanor. Sherlock was obviously ruffled and he caught Molly eyeing him with concern with his peripheral vision. He managed a quick smile and dropped a kiss to the back of her hand before pulling out his phone.

**UP MOLLY'S SECURITY LEVEL AGAIN. – SH**

**SHE'S ALREADY AT THE TOP LEVEL. – MH**

**JUST PUT MORE PEOPLE ON HER, MYCROFT. DON'T ARGUE. – SH**

**FIND SOMETHING THAT BOTHERED YOU, BROTHER MINE? – MH**

**YES. NOW DO IT. – SH**

**YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND. – MH**

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slipped his phone back into his pocket, glancing out the window at the passing buildings. Neither spoke again until the car stopped and Molly gasped. They exited the car onto the sidewalk in front of her old flat. Mycroft had generously kept up the rent for her so she wouldn't have to search for a new place after the threat was eliminated.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat before asking, "Molly, do you want to stay out here?" Sherlock was torn. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to see whatever had happened in her old home, but he didn't want her out of his sight either. The bouquet was a clear threat and he certainly wasn't going to ignore it.

She shook her head at him, her eyes wide with fear. He gripped her hand reassuringly and led her to the flat, knocking lightly on the door when he got there. It opened immediately and he frowned at Anderson, who, for once, had no snarky remark for the detective. In fact, he looked rather pale as he shot a glance at Molly.

"I'm not sure she should see this." He mumbled, knowing that what he said didn't matter, but Sherlock paused and examined the man, gulping when he reached his conclusions, and also looking back at Molly.

She swallowed at the scrutiny of two men but nodded firmly. "Sherlock, I need to know what is happening."

His jaw clenched but Sherlock said nothing, choosing to lead her into the flat instead. Lestrade met them in the hall with another warning, which was also brushed off by the pathologist. He argued a bit but let it go when Sherlock gave him a murderous glance the second Lestrade dared to touch Molly's arm. The Detective Inspector finally shrugged and led them into Molly's bedroom.

The woman shrieked, covering her mouth when she saw what was on the bed and Sherlock paled, once again gulping hard as his grip on her hand tightened painfully.

There, laid out on her duvet, was a body. Not just any body, either. No, the young woman was almost identical to Molly, from her long brownish red hair, to her pale skin and petite frame. She was even dressed in clothing that was obviously chosen to be similar to Molly's own style. A flowered button up and beige trousers with trainers on her feet. Her hair was drawn up into a ponytail identical to the one Molly was sporting at that exact moment.

She was laid out with both hands pressed over the left side of her chest and Sherlock's brows knit together as he noticed the huge blood stain that peeked from underneath her folded hands. He crept over to the bed, leaving Molly and Lestrade by the door and slipped on a pair of gloves he produced from his pocket before gently lifting the dead girl's hands. He dropped them back down immediately and straightened, his whole body stiff. He glanced around the room again, noting that nothing else was out of place. Sherlock doubted they would be able to find anything unusual even after going through the whole flat with a fine-toothed comb, which wasn't something he was planning to stick around for.

"She's missing her heart." He briefly glanced at Lestrade who had placed his arm around Molly's shoulders when Sherlock made his announcement. Molly had paled considerably and was gripping the door frame as if her life depended on its support, her knuckles white with the effort. The detective stared at his girlfriend for a long moment, the whole flat silent at his words. He stripped off his gloves suddenly and crossed the room again, picking up Molly and carrying the woman out of the flat, snatching a bottle of water Donovan was about to put to her lips on the way out. To her credit, the sergeant didn't even grumble about it.

Sherlock set Molly down on the pavement next to the car, supporting her, as her legs seemed rather wobbly. He put the water to her lips and she drank automatically, her gaze blank and unseeing. He opened the car door and helped her inside, ignoring Lestrade who came running out of the building.

"Sherlock! You're not going to help?" Lestrade questioned incredulously. "This is Molly we're talking about here!"

Sherlock rounded on the Detective Inspector, fury written on every feature of his face. "Don't you think I know that?! Of course, it's Molly! It's always been Molly!" He ran both hands through his hair, exasperated. "Don't you see?! He's doing this to scare us. He's doing it to see if he can break us. And I'm not going to allow that to happen. Molly is the only thing that matters so I'm taking her home where I can keep her safe. You're not going to find anything here anyway. Text me when you find out who she was."

"Yes, but where's her heart?" the DI gasped out, grabbing Sherlock's arm as he turned away.

Sherlock stopped, deep in thought. "I have no idea. But I doubt it will be in that flat. I'm willing to bet he has something special planned for it."

He climbed into the car and slammed the door in the face of a surprised Lestrade.


	34. Hardening

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Sherlock took note of the two extra people he saw loitering around within sight of 221 Baker Street.

_Whatever else he might be, Mycroft is prompt._

He glanced around once more before heading inside with Molly leading the way.

The ride back to Baker Street had been mostly silent, with Sherlock snapping at Molly when she dared ask if he was alright. Of course he wasn't alright and it was all her fault. All sentiment's fault. He was angry with himself for falling into the trap of caring for someone and not knowing if he could protect her was tearing him apart. So he was mean to her, irritated with her attempts to soothe him. It was not good but he didn't know how else to express what he was feeling.

Sherlock groaned when they reached the sitting room of their flat. John sat, diligently tidying the books into piles, just as they had left him several hours before.

"Shouldn't you be getting back to Mary and your daughter?" Sherlock's baritone rang out in the room as he snatched up a book and began to flip through the pages, before slamming it down on the coffee table and picking up another.

Molly stopped in the midst of removing her coat and stared at him, as did John. The detective looked up, perturbed.

"What, shouldn't you? Your child is three days old. Quite soon to need an escape, don't you think, John? Though," he paused, scrutinizing his friend, who visibly steeled himself for the deductions that everyone knew were coming. "You fought with Mary again. Let it go, won't you? I'm the one she shot and I got over it months ago."

He ignored Molly's little gasp and strategic exit from the room. John shook his head.

"You're slipping, Sherlock. We didn't fight over that. We fought because she wanted me to come help you if I could and I didn't want to leave her and Amanda. Our home is well guarded though, thanks to your brother, and she was right. Maybe, just maybe, I can help." The doctor sighed and gestured around. "I'm almost done sorting the books if you'd like to start going through them to see which ones you have in common. I wasn't sure which were yours and which were hers."

Sherlock gave a curt nod but was silent, choosing instead to pick up another book and scan through it.

He was afraid. Terrified at the thought of losing Molly. That was most certainly what was implied by the events of the day so far. The bouquet had been a threat. Grief, loss, death. Obviously, it was to show him what would happen to him if he lost his girlfriend. Sherlock knew that it would be much worse than that if he couldn't protect her. If she was taken from him. He could feel himself hardening again, breaking under the pressure of fear and uncertainty. He hadn't even thought of following Molly when she left the room, though in the previous days he would have. Sherlock gazed through the book in his hands, unfocused on the words. The fear he was experiencing was unlike anything he had ever felt in his life. Even knowing she was safe a room away from him, it stabbed at his heart to think of her harmed somehow and the vulnerably he felt frightened him even more.

He roused himself from his musings when John cleared his throat.

"You ok, Sherlock? You've been standing there for over an hour." John's voice sounded worried.

The detective shook himself and glanced around, seeing that John had finished sorting the piles of books. On the floor by the fireplace were the volumes that could be useful and the others were stacked neatly by the couch, out of the way of traffic. He slowly set his book down on the coffee table, realizing that it was a short chapter book, probably left over from Molly's teen years, and was definitely not the tome he was searching for.

"Well, I better get back to the girls now." John stuffed his hands in his pockets awkwardly. "You sure you're alright? You seem, well, a little out of it." He shifted back and forth on his feet.

Sherlock nodded again, not trusting his voice, and crossed the room to sink into his chair and reach for one of the books near his feet. John took that as his cue and left the flat quietly, muttering something about being in touch.

Another hour passed and Sherlock's stomach growled. He frowned down at it, annoyed at the interruption while he was working. The distraction made him aware of his surroundings though, and realized that he hadn't seen Molly since they arrived more than two hours ago.

He stood and stretched, dropping the book he had been holding into this chair before creeping silently to his room and opening the door. His brow furrowed. No sign of Molly. He closed the door and opened his bathroom. Nothing. Sherlock cocked his head, listening for any movement upstairs. The whole flat was silent. He rushed through the sitting room and up the stairs to the spare bedroom, flinging open the door and wildly glancing around. No Molly, only Toby who peered up from his position curled up on the bed, where he had been napping.

_Molly hasn't been here or Toby wouldn't be in the middle of the bed._

Sherlock panicked. He ran back downstairs, pulling out his phone to call Mycroft when he stopped dead at the bottom of the stairs, hearing a faint sound.

He went absolutely still, ears straining to hear the noise again. His eyes darted down to the main level, and Mrs. Hudson's door, where there were muffled voices. He clattered down the stairs at breakneck speed and threw open the door to his landlady's flat.

He nearly collapsed against the door with relief as the sight of Molly, seated at the table sharing tea with Martha Hudson, met his wide eyes.

His girlfriend and her hostess stared at him with equally wide-eyed expressions.

His featured hardened almost instantly. "Why the hell didn't you tell me you were coming down here?!" He demanded of a bewildered Molly. "How am I supposed to keep you safe if you insist on disappearing at any given moment?!" His voice was rising in pitch and he vaguely realized his fists were clenched.

He could've shot himself when he saw Molly shrink into herself, her eyes conveying her fear. Fear of him.

He immediately relaxed his body and held out his hand to her, silently asking for her to come to him. She hesitated only a moment before standing and murmuring "excuse me" to Mrs. Hudson, who merely nodded.

They headed up the stairs, neither speaking a word and Molly left him in the sitting room, heading up to the spare bedroom. Sherlock's heart clenched as he watched her go, knowing that she wouldn't be sleeping with him tonight, that he wouldn't feel her soft, warm frame pressed against his much larger one.

It was his own fault, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it. He walked over to the table and picked up his violin, fingering the strings idly before he struck up a tune, the plaintiff melody echoing through the room late into the night.


	35. Have a Heart, Sherlock

The sound of the downstairs door opening woke Sherlock. At some point during the night he had fallen asleep on the couch, his violin across his stomach and the bow hanging out of his hand onto the floor. He sat up quickly, putting the instrument onto the table and rubbing his face blearily. He took stock of his body, grimacing at the soreness of his muscles. He hadn't slept well, and he knew it was because he had become used to sleeping in his bed, with his Molly. He shook himself and stood, deciding that he needed a shower and a change of clothes. He ran his hand along his jaw and opted to shave as well.

Sherlock walked into his bedroom, once again feeling a pang in his chest as he glanced at the undisturbed bed. He continued with his actions, grabbing up his dressing gown and retreating to the bathroom. He turned on the water and while he waited for it to heat, he undressed, throwing his clothes haphazardly towards the door, creating an untidy pile on the floor. He finally climbed into the shower, letting the hot water run over his body, washing away the stress of the previous day and relaxing his tense muscles.

He was actually enjoying his shower, staying in longer than he normally would, when he heard a "Yoo hoo!" from the direction of the kitchen. He sighed.

_Of course. _

Sherlock turned off the water and climbed out, drying himself quickly and wrapping his blue dressing gown around his lanky body.

Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson was standing in the kitchen when he exited the bathroom.

"Sherlock, what have you done? That sweet young lady left here this morning with hardly two words to me. You haven't upset her again, have you?" She bustled about, making tea and setting out some scones she'd brought upstairs, oblivious to the stiffening of Sherlock's body just after he collapsed into a chair.

"Where did she go?" he asked, his voice pitched low and strained.

His landlady looked up from the tea tray and clucked at him. "Work, silly. Where else would she go?"

His fists clenched. "I told her not to. I told her to stay here until this is over."

"Now, Sherlock, you can't keep her prisoner here in this stuffy old flat. Mycroft's men are looking after her. She'll be fine. She needs to get out of this place for a little while at least." She set a cup of the steaming liquid in front of his as he pouted.

"She isn't safe," he insisted, shaking his head, blowing on his tea before taking a tentative sip.

"Oh, of course she is. Stop being such a man." She tsked at him as he raised a brow at her choice of words. "You know what I mean. Now you be nice to that sweet thing. If you mess this up, I know I won't be the only one in line to hit you over the head." She left, still shaking her head and talking to herself about 'impossible males.'

The detective watched her go, then stood, quickly making his way to his room and throwing on some clothes. He was out the door in under five minutes.

"You left without saying goodbye."

Molly jumped, nearly dropping her files, as Sherlock stepped through the door into the lab at Bart's.

"Sherlock! Don't sneak up on me like that! You scared me!" She put a hand to her chest and stared up at him.

His anger was instantly replaced by hunger for her. Sherlock looked down at her, wanting nothing more than to take her away and bury himself inside her, forgetting about everything and everyone else. Molly must have seen the desire in his eyes because her mouth parted and her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips.

He was about to grab her, _(to hell with it,)_ when the door banged open and a young man entered, bearing a package. Sherlock jumped back from Molly, seeing a flash of hurt in her eyes at his action.

_No distractions!_

"Doctor Hooper?" the man asked, pushing the package towards her.

"Yes, that's me." She grabbed onto it as he clumsily pushed it into her chest and turned abruptly, heading back through the door, letting it slam behind him. Molly shot a bewildered glance at Sherlock, who dashed to the door and stuck his head out into the hall, looking back and forth but seeing no sign of the deliveryman.

"Oh well, he wasn't important. The scuff on his boots showed that," he concluded, his head still half out the door. He was oblivious to Molly's grin and the slight shake of her head.

He ducked back into the lab and grabbed up a pair of scissors from a nearby table. He slipped the box from her grasp and onto a table before cutting it open and gingerly easing it open. Sherlock blanched as he took in the contents, glancing back at Molly to see her worriedly twisting her hands together, her bottom lip between her teeth.

He pulled out his phone and dialed a number, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear as he pulled out a thin white envelope, still peering down into the box.

"Yes, Lestrade. I've found your missing heart. We're in the lab at Bart's."

The door slammed behind Greg as he came bursting into the lab. Molly sat on a table and Sherlock was pacing back and forth in front of her, deep in his mind palace. His hands moved through the air and he mouthed words to himself.

Lestrade raised a brow at Molly who shrugged and pointed to the box opposite her. Greg peeked inside and turned a bit green as he took in the perfectly preserved heart inside. He hastily shut the package and turned back to her.

"Was there anything else inside?" he asked, swallowing down the bile in the back of his throat. Molly smirked at his squeamishness.

"Yup," she quipped, handing the detective inspector the white envelope that had been lying next to her on the counter.

He opened it and scanned the contents, glancing up at her quizzically. She shrugged again and jerked her head in Sherlock's direction.

"I have no idea. He read it and immediately began doing that." She reclined back on her hands. "He's been like that ever since he called you."

Lestrade nodded, reading the words again.

**I'VE BEEN RELIABLY INFORMED THAT I DON'T HAVE ONE.**

**BUT WE BOTH KNOW THAT ISN'T QUITE TRUE.**

"I'm assuming it means a heart. 'I've been reliably informed that I don't have one,' sounds like something Sherlock might say about a heart. Not in the literal sense of course…" Molly trailed off self-consciously.

Greg shook his head at her and pulled out the two pictures that accompanied the notecard.

"What are these?" he questioned the pathologist.

"Your guess is as good as mine. I don't recognize either building." Molly's brow furrowed and she bit her lip in thought. "I should know one of them if this is the same as the other times. One place should be from Sherlock's past and the other from mine but I don't see how it could be that if I don't remember either of these places." She reached for the pictures and Greg handed them to her so she could scan them again. She shook her head. "Nope. Neither one looks familiar in the slightest."

"I recognize both. Or at least, I know what both are."

Both Molly and Greg looked at Sherlock in surprise as he suddenly spoke. The detective pulled out his phone and rapidly typed, hitting send before replacing it in his pocket.

"So? Tell us?" Molly angled her body towards him, crossing her legs underneath her and resting her head on one hand.

Sherlock shook his head vehemently. "I'll go to these sites alone, Molly. You stay here." He strode swiftly to the door and out into the hall, with Molly and Greg staring after him, then at each other.

Molly was the first to move, mere moments later. "Like bloody hell you're going alone," she muttered under her breath as she took off after him, leaving Lestrade to stand, perplexed, alone in the lab.


	36. The War Within

**Triggers in the chapter: Former drug use and withdrawal. Skip this chapter if that bothers you.**

* * *

"You're not coming, Molly." Sherlock drawled from his position leaning against the outside wall of Bart's. Molly jumped, startled. She'd been so busy looking back and forth down the sidewalks for him, that she'd missed him right there next to her. She put her hands on her hips, giving him a fierce glare, which he ignored.

"I'm serious. I don't want you to go with me this time." He turned away, but she grabbed his arm.

"Sherlock," Molly searched his face, and he avoided her eyes. "Tell me what's wrong. Why are you shutting me out?"

He shook his head. "I'm fine. I just don't think it's necessary for you to go." He pivoted on his heel and managed to take two steps away from her, but was stopped by the ping of an incoming message. He froze and sighed before reaching into his pocket and pulling up his inbox.

He exhaled loudly in frustration and uttered a curse word under his breath, before holding out his hand to Molly.

"Orders from on high," he said, sarcastically. "You're coming." His face was a storm cloud of anger making her hesitant to reach out and clasp his outstretched hand.

He huffed, rolling his eyes, and grabbed hers, pulling her off in the direction of the street, where he hailed a cab and climbed in, not waiting for Molly. Rapidly firing out an address to the driver, he settled back into his seat, staring out the window. He heard Molly sigh but didn't, couldn't, face her. Not when he knew where he was taking her.

Sherlock climbed out of the cab in front of an old Victorian building. There were no signs on the outside, nothing to indicate what lay within the grey walls.

Sherlock straightened up, his chin held high, and stalked up the walkway; Molly trailing behind. The detective paused in front of the door. His brow furrowed, his body language making his hesitation apparent. The large wooden door was cracked and Sherlock smirked at the irony. There were multiple locks, but they were attached to the outside of the door, like they were meant to keep something in instead of keeping the world out. He pushed lightly on it and stepped inside.

The interior was barren, nothing, not even furniture lay within, and it was covered in dust, as if the building hadn't been opened in years. Which, as far as Sherlock knew, it hadn't. He knew he hadn't set foot in it in over eight and he was sure he was the last person inside.

He glanced over his shoulder at Molly who was taking everything in, wide-eyed. The detective walked across the room to a large staircase which snaked up the far wall and into the top left of the large front room. He looked down at the bannister before gently putting his hand down onto it as he climbed the stairs, Molly on his heels.

Sherlock stopped in the doorway of a bedroom at the end of the hall. It was the only room in the entire building that still housed furniture. There was a narrow bed with a white metal frame covered in a ratty grey blanket, no pillow. Against one wall stood a chest of drawers and an armchair, the leather cracking with age and misuse, taking the rest of the space in the tiny room. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.

Molly sneezed, making Sherlock jump. He'd completely forgotten she was behind him.

"Sherlock?" she whispered, loath to disturb the intense stillness of the room. "Where are we?"

He stepped into the room, looking more closely at the dresser on the far side of the space. On it, drawn with a finger into the piles of dust, was the cipher he was searching for.

He took a picture and turned back to face the petite woman.

"Welcome to my own personal hell, Doctor Hooper." He gestured around him. "Have you ever wondered why Mycroft and I fight all the time?"

Molly's brow furrowed, not following Sherlock's train of thought but she nodded obediently.

"When he found out I was using, he had his men take me in the middle of the night and shut me up in here with nothing but some water, a few food items, and a woman who came to check on me twice a day. Mycroft said it was for my own good. That he wouldn't have done it if he didn't care about me. He lied! He locked me up in here like some sort of ANIMAL!" He shouted the last word at her, making the woman jump in fright.

Sherlock turned away from her. He took deep breaths, trying to ease the churning inside of him that his surroundings brought forth. He could feel his heart racing, and vaguely realized he was hyperventilating.

Sherlock turned and violently punched the wall, eliciting a scream from Molly.

He heard a soft moan from the direction of the bed as he sank to his knees.

_Damn this place! Damn these memories!_

Sherlock looked up. The dust was gone, Molly was gone. Ragged curtains covered the windows and more groans came from the rickety bed. He gulped and stood, looking down at the form writhing on the mattress. His eyes widened as he stared down at himself from years ago.

His body was a sickly pale and his bones stuck out through his translucent skin. Sherlock's brow crinkled in pain as he took in the sight of his past self's inner arms, purple and black from repeated needle marks. There were beads of sweat on his brow and he tossed and turned on the narrow bed, aching in his withdrawal.

Sherlock grimaced as his former self leaned over the side of the back and retched, expelling the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He bit back the bile that threatened to rise in his present self.

He hated himself then. What he was, what he had let himself become because he couldn't learn to control his brilliant mind without the assistance of his drugs of choice. Cocaine for the rush and additional clarity. Morphine for the peace and stillness.

Sherlock worried that now, he was addicted again. Instead of a needle though, his fix came in the form of a petite little woman with mesmerizing chocolate eyes. He was afraid he was once again dependent. That he would never be the same without her. And the thing that was the most terrifying to him was how alright he was with it all. How fine he was with changing his life to fit her into it.

As he pondered his dilemma, his mind created an image of Molly, who rushed into the room with a bowl of cold water and rags tucked into one arm and a glass of some sort of liquid, (juice, he guessed) in the other hand. She hurriedly set the glass down and dodged his vomit to sit next to his limp form on the bed and dab his feverish forehead with the cool cloths.

Sherlock watched, fascinated by his own mind's projection of Molly caring for him even in his lowest moment. He gazed at her in amazement as she cleaned him up lovingly, not even cringing at the foulness of his broken body.

Sherlock came to sometime later, blinking at the rays of sun that streamed into the room through the bare window. His brow furrowed at the bed, and the lack of people on it for a moment before realizing what had happened.

He turned quickly to face Molly, who was curled up against the wall of the hallway outside the door of the small room. Her knees were tucked up close to her chest with her arms wrapped tightly around them. There were tear tracks down her cheeks and her eyes were still a bit puffy and red-rimmed though it was obvious she'd stopped crying several minutes before.

Sherlock crossed the room and stepped out into the hall, kneeling next to Molly who valiantly tried not to cringe, though Sherlock saw the war waging in her eyes. He took her hands, noting that his right was bruised and covered in blood from cuts across his knuckles from punching the wall.

"Come on, Molly. We're finished here." He stood and helped her to her feet, tucking her into his side with an arm around her waist, as they headed back to the entrance of the sad, abandoned building, leaving his burden behind in the dusty depths of the place.


	37. A Deeper Level of Hell

**Trigger warnings: mentions of non con/rape. SKIP THIS CHAPTER IF THAT BOTHERS YOU.**

* * *

Sherlock sat in the back of the cab, brooding. His eyes never left Molly, who nervously avoided his gaze, choosing instead to alternately stare out the window and at her hands, which were twisting together in her lap.

He hated himself for getting them into this situation. He hadn't been able to find a scrap of information about their tormentor and so they were at his mercy for the time being. Which meant that Sherlock was now forced to take Molly to a place he knew would wound her deeply. He had tried to leave her behind, to collect the clue he needed by himself, but his phone had been compromised and no sooner had he sent a message to Mycroft that he was sending Molly back to Baker Street than he had gotten another text from their enemy, demanding that he take her with him.

Sherlock sighed audibly and Molly's eyes flitted towards him, darting back to the window when she saw he was watching her. He was angry with himself. Angry he had ever succumbed to the pull of sentiment. Not that he regretted Molly. Quite the opposite in fact. Sherlock's regret was that he hadn't been strong enough to stay away from her when he had known from the beginning that he would hurt her one day. He had known that if she stayed with him long enough, eventually she would get burned. Sherlock could have killed himself for being so selfish as to let her face those inevitable consequences.

He shook himself as the cab came to a halt in front of a large brick warehouse. Sherlock shot off a text to his brother, requesting a car pick them up within the hour. He opened his door and got out slowly, looking over the top of the cab at Molly, who returned his gaze, before closing his door and tapping the top twice. The cabbie drove away, leaving the two alone, as there were few buildings nearby and those that were crumbled with age and disuse, having long been abandoned. Ivy crawled up the side of the red brick, contrasting with the deteriorating façade. Sherlock thought it was a fitting metaphor, the ivy spreading across the building like a disease, the memories of this place infecting the mind.

A glance to his left provided him with evidence that Molly still didn't recognize their location. Though he had never been here, he'd deduced where they were being sent by comparing it to where he'd had to go face his past. Sherlock's "rehab," or detox house, was the closest he'd come to hell on earth. It only made since that this place would signify the same part of Molly's past.

He reached for her, grasping her hand in his and lifting it to his lips to plant a kiss on the back.

"Come on, Molly," he sighed as he pulled her gently towards the door that would no doubt be open for them.

He pushed their way inside and coughed as the dust swirled up around them. The detective calculated in his head that it had been nearly five years since Molly had been here, and the decomposition of the place was consistent with that timeline. He doubted anyone had set foot in the place since then. Molly sneezed violently a couple times before recovering and examining the large room they were in with her brow furrowed. It was obvious that she was at a loss, so Sherlock began to walk across the room, heading towards a door on the far side. Its rusty hinges creaked as he pushed at it, having to use a bit of muscle to wrench it open. Behind lay a dark hall, cobwebs covering the upper portion of the walls. Molly gulped, eyeing the webs and Sherlock remembered her telling him at some point that the only two phobias she had were of spiders and enclosed spaces. He shrugged off the Belstaff and covered her head with it before taking her hand and leading her through the hall, brushing webs out of the way with his other hand.

They passed several steel doors, Sherlock eyeing each one as they walked, until they were nearly at the end of the long passage. Sherlock stopped in front of one that was different from the rest. It was solid wood, stained dark, and looked to be reinforced with metal bars. He glanced back at Molly, who was biting her lower lip, and looking between him and the door. She gave a small nod and he pushed it open.

The space was fully furnished, with a large wrought iron canopy bed dominating the room. It was hung with white sheer material and the duvet was a deep crimson blood color; there were no pillows. Near the door stood a table, one of the plastic fold-up types in a dull beige color. Sherlock eyed the object atop it, a stereo, and determined that it had been there for a long time, though it had recently been used, judging from the cleanliness of it. On the other side of the bed sat a chair, not unlike the electric chair used for death sentences. It was large and heavy looking, solid wood, with what appeared to be leather straps on the arms, legs and back of it. Sherlock swallowed thickly as he took in the sight of what he could only assume was a collar on the ground near it. The floor was thick, luxurious, shag carpeting in a grey color, and Sherlock's steps were muffled as he ventured further into the room.

He turned back when he got to the bed, studying Molly carefully. She stood just inside the door, clutching his coat around her small form, her face completely expressionless. No tears, no anger, no despair. Nothing. Her eyes were dull and blank. _Lifeless,_ Sherlock thought before dismissing the word from his mind. He didn't want to imagine seeing her lifeless, though he was sure it would look something like what was before him now. She stared at him, through him, and for once, he had no idea what she was thinking, or if she was thinking at all.

The detective carefully turned around, examining the area without touching it. Unlike the other parts of the building, this room was virtually free of dust. _Back door,_ he surmised. Someone had to have come in to leave the cipher for them so there must be another way in since he had seen no evidence of entry the way they came. The duvet had been touched recently, so, with a tentative hand, Sherlock pulled it back, revealing the sheet underneath. His eyes widened as faded blood stains and evidence of intercourse came into view. The detective had to stop for a moment to swallow down the rage that consumed him at the thought of his pathologist lying there, broken, abused and bleeding. He frowned and glanced back at the table as he pulled the duvet down further after catching sight of a cd along with a white envelope. He slowly closed his fingers around them and straightened, taking the cd to the stereo and opening the slot, pushing the disc inside. He took a deep breath and glanced back at Molly, who was still silent, before pressing play.

The soft strains of a violin rang out through the stillness of the room and after a moment, Sherlock recognized his own playing. He was startled, and looked to Molly for an explanation. Her eyes were on the bed and he got the sense that she was far away, reliving experiences that she should never have had to endure in the first place. He worried his lip, wondering if he should turn the music off, when it abruptly stopped and a voice began to speak.

"Hello lovelies, I'm glad you're here." Sherlock recognized the lilt of their tormentor and sighed.

"This is your last clue. As you probably noticed, today was about your lowest points. Both, Sherlock, were solely your fault." Sherlock's brow furrowed, anger coursing through his veins like the drugs he'd once been addicted to.

"You chose to take the drugs. You chose to dull your brilliance with chemicals, chasing that ever elusive peace of mind. It was your fault you endured hell to purge them from your body." There was a pause before the voice continued. "This place is your fault as well, Sherlock, though you might not know why yet."

Sherlock never took his eyes from Molly as she walked slowly towards the chair, rounding the bed, and sat on it, her fingers tracing the wood of the arms gently, methodically, repetitiously.

"You told Molly that Jim from IT was gay and she believed you. She broke up with the world's only consulting criminal because the man who treated her like** SHIT**," the last word was snarled, "told her that he was gay. Believe it or not, James was fascinated by Doctor Hooper. He was amazed that someone so simple, so fragile, could have dealt with everything she has without lashing out or becoming bitter. After she left him, his only thought was to break her, hence this place."

Another long pause and a sigh.

"It didn't though. It didn't break her at all. On the contrary, it made her stronger, even though she never told a soul what happened. Not even you, Sherlock, though that might have been because you were far too busy to notice something was wrong with your **_favorite pathologist_**." The last two words were said with such sarcasm that Sherlock winced.

"It made her stronger and James admired her for it. Which, of course, led to his downfall. His admiration for her was the reason she didn't have a sniper on her that day. He didn't want her to die. James never counted on you swallowing your pride long enough to ask for her help. That was obviously an oversight on his part. He was fond of her and the sentiment got him killed. I assure you, I have no such impediment."

Sherlock's eyes followed Molly's fingers, up and down, over and over, as she traced the carvings of the chair, never looking up from her task.

"This is it, Sherlock. Here is your last set of clues, and the clock is now ticking. Solve my riddle within 24 hours or someone, somewhere, will pay the price of your incompetence."

With that, the cd stopped and so did Molly's hands. She stood slowly, her eyes on the floor and shuffled back to the door, leaving the room with Sherlock on her heels.


	38. Searching

**Thanks so much for all the support! Things will begin to escalate soon! I love you all, and thanks especially for the encouraging reviews!**

* * *

Sherlock watched helplessly as Molly stormed into Baker Street with a single-minded purpose.

She immediately began tossing books right and left, frantically searching for the correct one. He was taken aback by her manner, considering that she had been silent and listless since they'd first set foot in that terrible room.

Now, her movements were erratic, bordering on manic. It worried him.

"Molly," he started, but was cut off by the abrupt sound of a thick book hitting the wall. She stared at the place where it had made contact in disbelief. The pathologist took in a deep, shuddering breath, and looked down at her hands, then over at Sherlock, her eyes wide with some unnamed emotion.

_Fear._

Sherlock's heart clenched as he realized that the petite woman was terrified. Afraid of what might happen if they couldn't solve the riddle given to them. The detective stepped silently into the room and sighed, glancing around at all the books. He looked back at Molly, who was still coping with having lost her composure a moment before.

Sherlock took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, containing all of the ciphers, and gazed at it for a moment. Walking over to his desk, dodging piles of books along the way, he picked up a heavy volume and consulted it. After a couple minutes of study, he wrote down a series of numbers and made his way to the couch, pulling out a push pin and sticking the list to the wall.

"There. Those are the numbers we're looking for. The first is page, the second, word number," he stated, matter-of-factly, inwardly cursing how cold he sounded. He couldn't let sentiment cloud his mind now though, not when he had such a limited amount of time to solve this puzzle.

He shot off a quick text to John and Lestrade, asking them to come help in the search. Molly and he had far too many books between them to sort through all of them on their own and hope to find the answers in time.

He picked up a book and flipped to the first set of coordinates, and snapped the book shut when he found nothing useful. Out of the corner of eye, he saw Molly lethargically follow suit. His lips pursed as he eyed the stacks around them. They had a lot of work to do.

* * *

Five hours in, and with the help of both the Detective Inspector (who had been far too attentive to Molly than strictly necessary) and John, they were still no closer to finding the clues left for them.

Sherlock was becoming increasingly frustrated, as were the others. Mrs. Hudson had just scuttled back down to her flat after Sherlock had yelled at her for daring to bring them all tea and biscuits. Molly had devoured the food, getting odd glances from everyone except Sherlock, who remembered her stress induced eating on Valentine's Day. It seemed like so long ago, but was, in fact, only five short days.

So much had happened in that time.

They worked mostly in silence, with only the occasional suggestion of a series of words from one of the books and Sherlock's biting dismissal of each recommendation.

* * *

It was almost four in the morning and they'd been at it since seven the previous evening. Sherlock came out of his thoughts to glance around and sigh. Lestrade and John were both passed out on the couch and in the chair, respectively.

Molly was nowhere to be seen.

The man ran a hand through his hair, a harried look on his face, and started towards his bedroom, needing to make sure his girlfriend was safe. He frowned upon opening the door and realizing the room was empty.

_Oh._

He'd completely forgotten that she'd not spent the previous night curled up by his side, but upstairs in the spare room. He closed his room and headed back through the kitchen and sitting room, shaking his head at the sleeping men, before scaling the stairs.

The detective opened the door with a quiet click and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of Molly sprawled out across the bed, still in her clothes. He entered quietly, closing the door behind him and pulled out his phone, setting the alarm for two hours, just in case. When that was done, Sherlock crossed the room and climbed carefully onto the bed next to the sleeping woman. He gathered her into his arms, brushing the hair from her face, and clutched her to his chest. As he breathed deeply of her scent, he vaguely scolded himself for wasting time, but pushed the thought to the back of his mind, focusing on his love.

_Love?_

They hadn't used the word yet in their relationship and he was frankly startled that it came to mind so easily. The more he thought about it though, the more he knew it was the right word to use. Only in his head, anything more was too much for him to handle right now.

_After all this is over,_ he promised himself.

* * *

Sherlock awoke, blinking rapidly, as his alarm went off. He was surprised that he'd actually slept, but remembered that the night before, he'd been on the couch and his rest had not been very satisfying.

He disentangled himself from the still form of his girlfriend and smiled down at her for moment. His face grew somber when he thought of their task for the day and the fact that half of their time was already gone.

He stood and stretched, leaving the small woman in the bed, then headed back down the stairs to start again. John was up, his military regimen not allowing him to sleep late. The army doctor was sipping a cup of coffee and held his cup up to Sherlock in a silent invitation, to which the detective nodded. John got up and poured him a cup, dropping in two sugars, and handed it to Sherlock, who'd collapsed into the chair opposite his friend.

"Sherlock?" John asked after a moment. "What happens if we don't figure this out in time?"

The taller man pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger of the hand that wasn't gripping the coffee cup, his eyes scrunched together.

"Honestly, I don't know. I'm assuming death and destruction," he quipped, grimacing at John's expression of disapproval as much as the scalding sip of coffee he took too quickly.

"Not good, mate." John shook his head in fond exasperation.

"Yes well, being worried about it isn't going to speed this up," Sherlock replied, reflecting that this conversation was rather similar to another one they'd had in the past. The look on John's face said that he was thinking the same thing.

Both men finished their coffee in silence, rising up to once again to tackle the books afterwards.

John shook Greg awake and he blearily rubbed his eyes.

"Mols asleep?" were the first words out of his mouth and Sherlock shot him a venomous glance.

"Yeah," answered John, and Lestrade nodded, getting to his feet and saying something about the loo. He padded off in the direction of Sherlock's bathroom.

The detective grabbed up a book and soon after, the three men were once again embroiled in their search.


	39. The Taunt

Molly appeared in the sitting room at half past nine, eliciting a smile, then a frown, from Sherlock. She'd changed clothes, but not into her work attire. No, she was in comfortable yoga pants and a vest, both items of clothing clinging to her small frame. The appreciative look from Lestrade didn't go unnoticed by the detective. Especially after Sherlock had gotten a good look at her bum and realized that there were no lines from her knickers.

"Get enough sleep?" he asked, his voice dripping with annoyance. She glanced at him, hurt by his harsh words, and he immediately regretted them, but was too proud to retract in front of the other men.

"Coffee, Molly?" offered John and she nodded at him, smiling gratefully. After accepting her cup, she blew on it and Sherlock zeroed in on her lips. He couldn't help but think of them forming that perfect 'o' around his cock. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and snatched up another book to take his mind off of her mouth doing delightful things to portions of his anatomy.

He looked back down at the book and let out a frustrated sigh, dropping it onto the floor. As much as Sherlock projected control and aloofness, the stress of keeping everyone safe was grating on him, pulling at the tendrils of calm that remained. He methodically checked book after book, cursing the fact that he and Molly enjoyed so many of the same ones. A while later, a voice pulled him from his reverie.

"Listen, I've got to get to work." Greg stood from his seat on the couch, moving a pile of books that had already been checked to the side. "I'll be seeing you," he nodded to John and Molly, glancing Sherlock's way slightly.

John and Molly both said their goodbyes, while Sherlock merely grunted his acknowledgement of Lestrade's departure.

A few hours later, and John had to go as well. Mary was still recovering from the birth and he needed to be home to help with little Amanda. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable being away from them for long, but no one acknowledged that fact.

That left just Molly and Sherlock to dig through the massive piles of books. The pathologist glanced around helplessly. There were so many books left to check.

* * *

"There has to be something I've missed!" Sherlock's voice was raised, not quite yelling, but certainly not speaking at a normal volume. The detective ran his hands through his hair, exasperated. There was only an hour left and Molly had succumbed to silence, while Sherlock became increasingly agitated by the second. He paced through the room, dodging volumes scattered along the floor.

Molly continued quietly searching, though the resigned look on her face betrayed her lack of hope. Finally, with a quarter of an hour left, she stood.

"I'm going to take a bath."

Sherlock stopped his frantic pacing and stared at her, dumbfounded. "You're kidding."

She shook her head, her eyes sad. "Sherlock, it's over. We failed. I'm going to take a bath so I'll be clean for whatever we're dragged into next." She grabbed up her e-reader and a can of coke and headed towards Sherlock's bathroom and the big claw-footed tub.

Sherlock collapsed into his chair, his head in his hands.

He'd failed. He'd had an entire day to simply find the right book and he'd failed.

He was angry. Furious even. He was Sherlock Holmes. He **_didn't_** fail. His head shot up, glaring in the direction Molly had gone.

_Molly._

She was distracting him. Her scent, her touch, her face. Everything about her was consuming his mind. Not a moment went by that he didn't think about her. Worry, fear, sentiment overriding his cool detachment.

Sherlock stood from his chair, intent on barging into the bath and thoroughly punishing her for so completely taking over him, mind, body and soul.

To that end, he opened the door to the bath roughly, slamming it against the wall, making Molly jump and stare up at him, startled.

And suddenly, he saw it.

Molly was immersed in the water, covered in bubbles, the coke next to her and her e-reader in her hand. Suddenly, it all made sense.

"Molly, quickly, what book are you reading?" he asked, his voice impatient.

Her brow furrowed. "The Count of Monte Cristo. It's my favorite. Why?" His face lit up as his theory was confirmed.

Sherlock dashed into his bedroom and fell flat on the floor, digging under his bed and grinning when his fingers closed on a torn book.

He pulled it out and sat back, his legs stretched out in front of him. Molly appeared in the doorway, water dripping down her legs and pooling on the floor, the towel around her ineffective.

"Sherlock?" she questioned, as a smile broke across his face and he began to laugh, before holding up the book. Her eyes widened with recognition. It was Molly's paperback copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, though it was a bit worse for the wear, with tears in the pages and what appeared to be some slight burning around the edges.

"That's mine!" she cried indignantly. She made to snatch the book out of his hands, but he pulled it back quickly.

"How'd you get that? I lost it ages ago!" she glared at him. "That's my favorite book, Sherlock, I've had it since I was a teenager."

Sherlock nodded. "I know. I, um, might have borrowed it one of the nights I stayed in your flat after the fall." He had the good sense to look contrite, knowing that he'd taken one of her most treasured possessions without her permission. It hadn't mattered to him then.

Well, in a way, it had. He'd picked it up on a whim, and became engrossed in the plot, with all its twists and turns. He'd taken it, not only because he wanted to finish it, but because he wanted a piece of her with him. He hadn't understood why at the time but now it was abundantly clear to him.

"I never thought to look at this book because I didn't see a copy in your set. I didn't think about your e-reader until just now." Sherlock neglected to mention that he hadn't actually entered the bathroom with that in mind and just got lucky. Molly didn't need to know that.

Now, he opened up the worn, crinkled pages to the first set of coordinates and smirked, holding it up for Molly to see. The word was highlighted, the bright yellow screaming out from the page. His sense of triumph overrode the fact that whoever had done the highlighting had been in the flat quite recently, since Sherlock read a bit in the book nearly every day.

He stood, sprinting back into the sitting room and opened his website, noting he still had four minutes. Molly glanced up at the paper with the sets of numbers on it and located each, reading the words out to him when she found them.

Four sets of clues, eight words total.

**NOW IT'S MY TURN TO MAKE YOU DANCE.**

Sherlock frowned and his eyes narrowed as he posted the sentence to the site with a minute to spare. It wasn't a clue, just a taunt from their enemy.

The ping of an incoming message alerted them that their enemy had seen the post and sure enough, it read simply,

**GOOD.**


	40. Crime and Punishment

**Three chapters in two days! It's a record! (For me, anyway.) So here, have some smutty goodness! Our dears needed a break from all the drama!**

* * *

Sherlock sat back and blew out a breath, looking over to Molly, who was gazing at him with undisguised admiration. With a start, he realized she was still in a towel and remembered that he had planned to punish her for being such a distraction. He set aside his laptop slowly, his eyes taking on a feral gleam. All the manic energy leftover from the puzzle before was now driven in a new channel, into his Molly.

The small woman gasped at the look on her lover's face, standing very still as he sprang up from his chair and began circling her, much like a predator stalking its prey.

He reached out and pulled the towel from her body, flinging it aside, not caring where it landed. Her sharp gasp was cut off when she bit down on her lip. Sherlock watched appreciatively as Molly's eyes dilated and her skin took on a delicate pink flush while her nipples hardened with the contact of the cool air against her exposed skin.

"Sherlock?" she questioned, tentatively, obviously fighting the urge to cover herself. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" Her brow furrowed at his narrowed eyes.

"Doctor Hooper, I think you need to be taught a lesson," he growled at her, still circling her still form, but now his fingers were lightly grazing the skin of her waist as he moved.

She swallowed thickly. "What for?" she asked, her voice hoarse with desire, and Sherlock noticed goose bumps rising on her skin.

"For allowing Lestrade to flirt with you. For wearing those delicious yoga pants without knickers. Don't think that I didn't notice." He stopped in front of her. "And you still need some punished for lying to me about having 'quite a lot of sex' with Tom." He purposefully didn't mention that she had been distracting him all day. He couldn't bring himself to tell her that he was so far gone just yet. He didn't think he could deal with how vulnerable that would leave him, even knowing that Molly would never hurt him.

His eyes flashed dangerously and he heard Molly's breath catch.

Suddenly, he lunged forward, catching her off balance, and caught her around her waist. He dug his hands into her soft arse, urging her with his actions to jump into his arms, and she complied, locking her legs around his hips with a moan. Their lips met in a heated kiss, all thoughts being driven from their minds with the bliss of being lost in one another.

Sherlock walked the few steps to the (thankfully clean) kitchen table and sat the petite woman on top of it. He pulled her in for another kiss, swiping his tongue across her bottom lip and groaning when she opened for him, allowing him to explore her mouth thoroughly. She moaned lightly, rhythmically moving against him, rubbing her core against his erection, desperate for some friction to relieve the ache building in her.

He pulled back, his gaze sweeping lustfully over her kiss swollen lips and heavy lidded eyes. He grinned wickedly at her before pushing her back to lay across the table. Sherlock knelt between her legs, pressing kisses to her legs, starting on the inside of her ankles and moving up, purposefully avoiding her already wet cunt. Her breath came in pants and Sherlock felt his cock strain against his trousers almost to the point of pain.

"Oh Sherlock, please. Please touch me," Molly moaned, breathlessly.

He raised a brow at her from between her legs. "Oh, no. Not yet, sweetheart." The detective took her by the backs of her thighs, just above her knees, and effortlessly flipped her so that she was face down with her legs dangling off the table and her arse at the edge, eliciting a surprised 'oh' from the pathologist. He brought his hand down without warning, the sharp crack of his hand contacting the bare skin of her bum resounding through the flat, punctuated by her loud moan.

"You were so very naughty Molly. Such a bad girl." She didn't answer but her back arched, pushing herself into his hand. He smiled. "So eager, I didn't know this was one of your kinks." He brought his hand back again, bringing it down with a satisfying pop on her reddening arse. "Count," he commanded.

"Two." Molly whispered the word, hardly enough breath to make it loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

"Louder." Another slap.

"Three." Molly's voice was more firm this time, though still with the slight edge to it.

Another. "Four!" This time it was a scream.

One hit for each transgression. Sherlock ran two fingers lightly down her crack, playing with the tight ring of her arsehole and suppressing a laugh at the sharp gasp that it pulled from her, before slipping down between the folds of her pussy. "Oh, so wet, Molly. I think you rather enjoy that, don't you?" he questioned, amused, meaning both the spanking and his light brush against her arsehole. She nodded as enthusiastically as she could with her head pressed against the table. He grinned, pleased with himself.

Molly's pants could be heard throughout the flat along with barely audible whispers of 'please' and 'oh God, Sherlock, fuck me' coming from the wiggling woman. Sherlock weighed his options, he could tease her more, make her beg for him, or he could take her now. Molly was more than ready for him and he was aching to be inside her. Decision made, his hands went to his belt, deftly undoing it, along with the button and zip. He pushed his trousers and pants down just far enough to free his throbbing prick.

Taking himself in hand, he lined up and thrust into her with one easy movement, groaning his appreciation as her juices slicked the way for him. Sherlock stilled inside her, relishing the way her wet sex clenched around his cock, until she moved against him impatiently, using the table as leverage to push her arse into his groin. His hands went to grasp her hips firmly and he began thrusting into her, the pace fast and unrelenting. Molly held onto the far side of the table for dear life and the sight of her stretched out for him lit a primal fire in Sherlock. He slammed into her ruthlessly, one hand moving down to rub the sensitive bundle of nerves that was her clit. Within minutes, she was screaming, begging him to fuck her harder, as her orgasm ripped through her tiny body, with Sherlock growling as her cunt grew even wetter. He fucked her through her orgasm before coming hard, emptying himself inside of her.

He collapsed on top of her, pressing lazy kisses to every inch of her skin he could reach. After getting his breath under control, Sherlock picked up the limp body of his girlfriend and carried her into the bedroom, slamming the door shut with his foot. It was only eight in the evening, but they both passed out immediately, only to wake in the middle of the night and find each other again.


	41. A Disturbing Coincidence

**We're rapidly coming to the climax of the story! Stay tuned!**

**Thanks again for all the lovely support! I read all of your reviews and you guys make my day so much better! Thank you so much for encouraging me.**

* * *

Sherlock's ringtone abruptly broke the silent serenity of the early morning. He sleepily rubbed at his face before reaching for the phone, his bleary eyes barely able to focus on the display.

It was Lestrade.

Sherlock was tempted to let it go to voicemail but decided against it. He thumbed the call button and put it up to his ear, shifting Molly gently so he could regain possession of his other arm, which was currently under the small woman's torso.

"Holmes." Sherlock's voice was hoarse with sleep. He smacked his mouth, which was dry, and rose from the bed, stalking into the kitchen for a glass of water, disregarding his nakedness.

"Sherlock, I've got something you're gonna want to see." Lestrade was tense, his words clipped and to the point. Sherlock's brow furrowed with anxiety.

_What now?_

"Text me the address."

"Will do." Greg hesitated then sighed. "You better bring Molly."

Sherlock unceremoniously dropped his glass on the counter, his heart sinking. Lestrade would only specifically ask for Molly if it so obviously involved her that even Scotland Yard couldn't miss it. The detective exhaled before replying.

"We'll be there."

He ended the call and stared down at the phone in his hand for a moment before walking back to the bedroom, dragging his feet along the way. He opened the door and Molly sleepily smiled up at him. He returned the gesture but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Molly, we've got to go. Lestrade called," he said, his voice monotone, as if he didn't trust it where emotion was concerned.

Her eyes opened fully and she sat up, biting her lip.

"Again?" her voice was low, and he knew exactly what Molly meant by that one simple word.

"It looks like it," he confirmed her suspicions.

* * *

Nearly an hour later, Sherlock and Molly ducked under the police tape that cordoned off the crime scene. The area was crawling with the Yard's finest and it took them a couple minutes to locate Lestrade in all the confusion.

"Sherlock, over here!" The Detective Inspector was waving at them from the entrance to Molly's favorite coffee shop.

"Maybe I can get a latte," she murmured under her breath, and Sherlock fought a smile.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," he replied out of the corner of his mouth as they made their way to Lestrade's position.

Greg looked them both over, his brow furrowed. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he scanned the Detective Inspector with critical eyes.

_Hands shaking, sweaty palms, rubbing them against his trousers. Eyes darting from Molly, to me, to inside. Labored breathing, slight nervous twitch. Conclusion, our friendly tormentor has struck again and it is easily linked to the three of us. _

Sherlock made his deductions in the blink of an eye, but that left him with too many possibilities. After all, the three of them had all been involved in many cases over the years. He needed more information before he could come to a solid conclusion.

"Show me," was all he said to Lestrade, who glanced inside one more time before nodding and motioning them both to come in.

"You're gonna want to suit up," Greg said to Molly, handing her a blue suit and some gloves, along with a net for her hair.

"Just the gloves, Molly," came Sherlock's distracted voice. He was busy peering over at the corner where Molly's favorite chair had been. Anderson was over there, along with several others. Instead of taking evidence though, they were all quietly facing Sherlock and Molly, their hands idle by their sides.

Molly grimaced and tilted her head apologetically at Lestrade, who shrugged, as if he'd expected as much, which was probably true.

Sherlock took a couple more steps into the shop and was hit with the nauseating smell of decaying flesh. He swallowed, and glanced back at Molly, whose nose had wrinkled, indicating she had caught the scent as well. Lestrade was looking a bit peaked behind her.

With a tilt of his head, Sherlock beckoned his pathologist over and together they advanced on the crime scene. When the crowd of Yarders parted to reveal the source of the stench, both Molly and Sherlock gasped and looked at each other.

"Our first case," Molly breathed quietly, and Sherlock nodded briefly, his wide eyes taking in the scene before them.

* * *

Sherlock's first case for the Yard had been somewhat of a disappointment. Not because it was beneath him or boring. No, it was disappointing because it was, to date, the only case he had failed to solve. Of course, there were a few that eluded him for a while, months even, but he'd eventually figured them all out. Except the very first one.

Eight years ago, on a cold December night, and Lestrade had stumbled upon a very high, twenty-nine year old Sherlock in a back alley. Greg was thirty-four and still relatively new to his position as Detective Inspector.

Lestrade had arrested him appropriately, but on the way to book him, he'd received a dispatch to a crime scene. Greg had sighed, but followed orders and driven to the scene.

He hadn't counted on Sherlock expertly picking his way out of his cuffs and appearing by his side, examining the two bodies before him with some measure of glee. Streams of deductions poured from the scrawny man and Lestrade had been fascinated by the insight the he'd had into the scene.

Sensing that Sherlock was more than meets the eye, Lestrade made him a deal. He'd let him help on the case, unofficially of course, if Sherlock stayed off of drugs during the course of the investigation. Holmes' eyes had narrowed, knowing the risk that Lestrade was taking on a nameless junkie, but had acquiesced.

Lestrade let Sherlock gather all he could from the scene, then had the bodies taken to Bart's for further examination. Sherlock had dramatically barged into the morgue, only to stop dead at the sight of a tiny woman, no more than twenty-six or seven, scrubbing her arms.

"Where's the pathologist on duty?" Lestrade had asked, exasperated. Sherlock was bouncing on the balls of his feet, his high coming down quickly.

"She'll do just fine. Still a student, in her first, no, second year of residency, she graduated undergrad a year early, but more than capable. The pathologist on duty right now has taken ill and is in the bathroom. Judging from the state of the room, he's not fit to be in charge here anyway. Doctor Hooper will be miles above him in her analysis."

Both Molly and Lestrade had stopped in the tracks, staring at the drugged man. He sighed, annoyed at them both.

"Go find the idiot if you must, but I doubt he's in a state to do more than observe as Doctor Hooper does the autopsy." He bounced over to the bodies and went to pull back the sheet, but stopped as Molly cleared her throat nervously.

"Umm, you can't, well, you can't just touch them," she'd stuttered, her eyes anywhere but on him.

_Nervous, not about her abilities, hmm, oh! Me then. Nervous in my presence. Attraction. Human error._

He'd dismissed her almost automatically, concluding that she was unimportant.

Eventually, a haggard Lestrade had come back into the morgue, and gave orders for Molly to go ahead and do the autopsies in a tired voice.

When she'd protested, he'd cut her off with a simple, yet confusing, "The British Government has cleared him and we need to get this done tonight."

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed, but he was quickly distracted by the petite woman prepping for the examinations. She was methodical and exacting in her movements, all trace of her former nervousness disappearing in the task at hand. He found himself fascinated by it, realizing that must be what he looked like when presented with a puzzle. He'd gazed at the little pathologist-in-training in a new light. Respect. Sherlock had decided right then that if he was allowed to continue consulting, she'd be the only pathologist he'd ever work with.

* * *

Now, as Sherlock surveyed the bodies in front of him, his mind whirled. They were exactly the same as those first ones, as well as the four that had followed. The ones that led him to meeting Lestrade, then Molly and eventually to his new life consulting for the Yard.

There was no such thing as a coincidence, but presented with the scene in front of him, Sherlock wished that they did exist.


	42. Reviewing the Facts

**I've now given you all the clues you need to figure out who their mysterious enemy is! You can PM me if you think you've figured it out. First one to get it right and tell me how they got it gets a one-shot from your prompt! Good luck!**

* * *

Molly pulled on her gloves with practiced ease, her hands shaking ever so slightly.

Sherlock and Lestrade watched from a couple chairs positioned several feet away from the bodies to avoid any stray splatters of blood.

All three were silent, the events of the day wearing their nerves raw, as Molly began examining the two bodies found in her favorite café.

* * *

"Wait, so explain this to me again?" John sat in the spare chair in Molly's tiny office, his head in his hands.

Molly lifted her head up from where it had fallen back to allow her neck to rest a bit. She peered over at John from her spot behind her desk, having to sit up straighter to see over the Detective Inspector in front of her. Lestrade was literally laying across the top of the work surface, his hands folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling in contemplation.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Greg? Help me out here?" Molly asked, prodding him in the ribs with one finger. He giggled, flailing for a moment, before regaining his control and giving her a playfully evil glare. Molly grinned at his reaction but sobered quickly and he did the same, turning his head to look at John.

"Alright, well, once upon a time, long before you came into the picture, it was the three of us solving crimes. Well, to be honest, I just found the crimes. They did the solving," Lestrade said, referring to Molly and Sherlock, his eyes once again in the ceiling.

"But there's a beginning to everything and our particular beginning was about eight years ago. I'd found Sherlock, high as a kite, in a back alley. On the way to drop him off at the police station, I got called to a crime scene. When we got there, I left him in the back of the squad car but the bloody idiot picked the cuffs and instead of running away, he showed up right next to me and started spouting off all kinds of shite about the bodies."

John laughed. "Yeah that sounds like Sherlock alright."

Lestrade grunted. "Well yeah. So it was obvious that he wasn't just making it up, so I had him accompany me here to get the autopsy report. While we were here, Mycroft called and cleared him to work with me. Of course at the time, I had no idea who 'the British Government' was. Frankly, it was a bit frightening."

"I was still in residency then," Molly interjected. "But the overseeing Pathologist was sick in the bathroom and hadn't come out for hours so I had to do both examinations as well as the four that followed over the next few days."

"Six total, all killed the exact same way. Sherlock never worked with anyone but our girl again," Lestrade said proudly, making Molly blush and swat his arm.

"Ok but what does that have to do with what was found today?" John asked, not getting the connection.

Greg and Molly stared at John, the former sitting upright so he could better see the army doctor.

"The bodies that were found today were killed in the exactly like those were. I mean exactly."

"Well, that could be a coincidence, right?" John asked, hopefully.

Molly stood as Greg chuckled. "Let me show you something John." She beckoned for him to follow her into the morgue. "You coming Greg?"

"No, thank you. Once is enough for me. I'm just fine right where I am," he said, laying back down on the desk.

Molly grinned before pulling out the bodies and uncovering them. "See what I mean, John?"

John took one look and nearly lost his lunch.

"What the hell is that?!" he exclaimed, before clamping a hand over his mouth and turning slightly green.

"That," Molly said matter-of-factly, "is the trademark style of our serial killer. There are always two bodies. They are killed one day with a combination of poisons injected in the buttocks, then meticulously hacked apart the next day with the limbs reattached to the other body. Sherlock couldn't make head nor tails of it back then."

"And now?" John glanced around the morgue, as if expecting the detective to pop out from behind a box of gloves.

Greg sauntered up behind them. "He disappeared right after Molly confirmed that everything was the same as the old murders. We haven't seen him since."

"How long ago was that?" John asked, incredulously.

"Um…" Lestrade glanced down at his watch. "A little over an hour now."

"And you have no idea where he went."

Molly and Greg shook their heads simultaneously, concern shining in Molly's eyes and annoyance in Greg's.

"Alright, I gotta get going." The Detective Inspector nodded at Molly and John before turning to stroll out of the morgue doors, letting them swing shut behind him.

The pathologist and the army doctor looked at each other for a minute.

"Come on Molly, I'll take you home," John offered, lightly grabbing Molly's elbow.

She nodded at him, then jerked her head in the direction of her office. "Let me just get my purse."

* * *

Four hours later, and still no sign of Sherlock.

Molly, John, and Mary were all in the sitting room of 221B examining the autopsy reports for the old and new deaths.

Molly was staring at a piece of paper where she had listed the victims in order of death in hopes of seeing some new data that would link them together somehow.

December 11th 2005 - Miranda O'Reilly, female, Irish, 29. Renzo Iglesias, male, Spanish, 24.

January 3rd 2006 - Andrea Reddison, female, English, 38. Theresa Yarbro, female, English, 21.

January 18th 2006 - Alexander Nelson, male, English, 44. Daniel Madern, male, American, 32.

This morning - Orlando Rodriguez, male, Peruvian, 26. Alicia Newson, female, English, 56.

She pursed her lips, her brow furrowing in concentration.

There were no shared traits amongst the victims. They were all ages, both sexes, different nationailities, no pattern in their names or behavior. Nothing.

* * *

Sherlock paced back and forth, his hands behind his back. He was currently at the coffee shop where the last two bodies were discovered. He'd scoured the place again for something, anything, that would point him in the right direction, but it had been a fruitless search.

He ran his hands through his hair, exasperated, collapsing to the ground in a heap.

This was the only case he'd ever not been able to figure out and it had driven him nuts for years. Now, it was back again and he was no closer to solving it.

Sherlock was furious.

It was obvious now that it was somehow connected to whoever had been tormenting him and Molly. Sherlock's hands balled into a fist, his breathing rapid. If it was connected to the enemy, which he had no doubts about, that meant that this had all been planned for a very long time. Possibly ever since Sherlock had tried to solve the murder of Carl Powers.

He fought back an involuntary shudder. He'd never tried to attract attention. Not even when he'd had nothing important to him. If he lost now, Sherlock had so much to lose.

A best friend and his wife and child, another friend in Lestrade (though Sherlock was still rather irked with him for his attentions to Molly,) Mrs. Hudson who was almost a mother to him, and Molly. Sherlock knew that if their enemy was going to target anyone, it would be the woman he loved. Mycroft had upped the number of agents watching her to four but Sherlock still worried.

To that end, he got to his feet and walked out of the café, hailing the first cab he saw and giving instructions to Baker Street.


	43. Shattered Hearts

**Sorry about the delay, I've had some personal issues this past week. Thanks for all the kind reviews and love this story received so far.**

**Huge thanks to Lisape, Canibecandid, Miz-Joely, and Pulpbomb for the critiques and encouragement.**

* * *

John and Mary gave each other a look as the door to 221 Baker Street flew open with a loud bang against the wall.

Mrs. Hudson's indignant voice rang out from her flat. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, don't you go banging about in my building!"

"Do shut up, Mrs. Hudson!" came the yelled reply as Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and burst into the sitting room where John, his wife and daughter, and Molly were still pouring over the autopsy reports.

_Why are there always people here? Why can't they leave me alone?_

The pathologist instantly shot to her feet, sprinting across the room to envelop him in her arms, anxiously checking him over for injuries.

"Sherlock! We were so worried!" Molly held him at arm's length, observing his face. "Where have you been? It's been hours! You didn't answer your phone."

_Doesn't she ever think about anything else? I don't have time for this._

He grimaced. "Molly, stop talking." Sherlock extricated himself from the petite woman's grasp, avoiding the hurt he knew he'd see in her eyes. He couldn't afford to think about her right now. He had to solve the case.

He stalked into the room and glanced around. Besides the papers on the coffee table and his desk, the room was surprisingly neat.

_Where the bloody hell are my things? Why does she change everything?_

He didn't want to ask the real question. The flat didn't matter.

_Why did she change me?_

He made his way to his chair and collapsed, steepling his fingers in his signature thinking pose.

The other three exchanged glances, with Mary rising from the couch stiffly (she was still rather sore from childbirth) to rub soothing circles on Molly's back. She murmured something to her and both women left the room, Molly hoisting Amanda into her arms, to head up to the spare bedroom.

John settled into his chair across from Sherlock and waited. He didn't have to wait long as Sherlock jumped back to his feet after only a few minutes.

"Dammit, John!" Sherlock grabbed up a glass half full of water and threw it, the slam against the wall and subsequent shattering doing nothing to soothe his battered nerves. He glanced down at John, who was staring at him, a mixture of anger and understanding on his worry-lined face.

"I've got nothing, NOTHING!" he yelled, the release cathartic. He wanted to scream and rage and lay waste to kingdoms, so great were his frustration and fear. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't-." Abruptly, he collapsed to the floor in a heap, his knees hitting the rug hard. Sherlock sat there, his body limp as a rag doll for a few cleansing breaths, before slowly pulling himself back up.

_This is going to break me._

"You see, John? Do you understand now why I avoided sentiment at all costs?" his tone was weary, but venomous on that particular word. The one he'd abhorred for years, knowing that it could, would, destroy him if he let it.

John shook his head. "Sherlock, don't do this." He didn't elaborate, but then, he didn't need to. He stood, rubbing his palms on the sides of his trousers. "I'm going to take the girls home now. It's late and I know Mary's tired, even if she doesn't say anything about it."

Sherlock only half listened to him. He went back to his chair and slouched into it, not acknowledging his friend's departure from the room.

A few minutes of silence later, and John returned with Mary and Amanda in tow, and Molly trailing behind. Hugs were exchanged as farewells, and the couple headed out, back home to rest.

Molly stood in the doorway, shifting her weight between her feet, chewing her lip as she glanced back and forth from Sherlock to the wall above the couch where she'd pinned photos and scraps of paper with information on the case.

She noticed the broken glass and retreated to the kitchen, emerging after a moment with a towel, broom and dustpan, and began to clean up the hazard. She took her time, finding each tiny piece of the shattered cup and placing them in the dustpan. Finally content with her efforts, the smalll woman took everything to the kitchen and disposed of the trash.

Returning, she waited patiently for Sherlock to notice her.

_Go away, Molly, you're distracting me._

After realizing that he wasn't going to say anything, she entered the room and picked up another stack of papers, absentmindedly perusing them for the millionth time.

Finally, she sighed and put them down, making her way over to the catatonic detective.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" she asked, anxiously. She reached out to touch him and was startled by his hands flying up to stop her.

_Dammit, woman, I can't think when you're near me._

"Not now," he growled, continuing his unseeing glare at the floor. He pushed her away lightly, never looking up at her. She stood by him, fidgeting slightly, until he exhaled, a long, low, breath.

"What, Molly?" He was terse and angry, and saw Molly flinch out of the corner of his eye.

_Good, maybe then she'll leave me alone._

"Sherlock?"

_No such luck. The air is so thick._

"What?!" he exploded, jumping up, knocking his chair backwards, along with the small table next to it. "What do you want, Molly?!"

He glared at her, an angry fire burning in his eyes, unable to stop the poison from spewing forth.

"What could you possibly want now?! Isn't it enough that you've ruined me?! I can't think and it's because of you! Are you happy?! You've broken me with your tiresome version of domesticity, born out of a pathetic need to feel wanted! You're so desperate to find someone who wants you, who needs you! Of course you are, you're all alone. No one left for you to cling to."

He thundered on, viscerally tearing her apart, saying things that were true, but true in the sense of saying that a tornado is only wind.

"You're not conventionally beautiful, your sense of humor borders on the morbid, your dress sense is childish, your innate need to be appreciated turning you into a simpering fool around any man you develop feelings for, negating any intelligence you show. You'll never be sought after. That's why you accepted that bloody idiot you were with! Because he was the only one who would have you! Why, Molly?! Why couldn't you just LEAVE ME ALONE?!"

_Fuck, it's so hot in here, why can't I breathe?_

He saw the moment she shut down. No tears this time. No emotion. Molly was empty, her face still and her gaze vacant. His chest heaved with deep, furious breaths, his eyes feral as his gaze flitted everywhere but to meet her blank ones. He glared at his hands.

_Shaking, release of endorphins, energy – why can't I think?! – excess energy._

"Sentiment! It's USELESS! The only thing that matters to me is my work! Do you understand, Molly?! Without my work, I'm nothing! YOU TOOK IT FROM ME!" he raged, knocking all the books and papers on his desk to the floor with a sweep of his arm. His laptop crashed to the ground, and she jumped, a small, alarmed gasp escaping her.

_Fuck, it's only February! Why is it so hot?!_

He shed his coat and flung it away, the material clinging to his hand.

"Stop it, Sherlock! Calm down, we'll figure this out!" her voice broke through, a slight waver betraying her delicate state of mind.

He turned away from her, running his hands through his hair in exasperation.

_I CAN'T BREATHE!_

"Dammit! I should have never touched you!"

_Too far. I've said too much. I always say too much or not enough to her. Too late to stop now._

He heard a whimper from her then, and turned back to look at her, his eyes cold. Molly was a ghost, her skin pale, he wondered if she would be cold to his touch. He could see carefully constructed walls now, a shield put up in a vain effort to keep him from reaching her fragile, beautiful heart.

"Please, Sherlock," she whispered, her voice tiny, almost lost in the storm of his fury. "Please don't do this. You need us, you need your friends."

That statement broke him. He hated the truth in it.

"Oh Molly," he said, his tone icy and cruel. "I'm one of the most brilliant people on the planet. What makes you think I need someone like you? I don't need anyone."

_I need you so much it terrifies me._

"I never said me, Sherlock. I don't count."

He turned back to the window. He heard her calmly slip on her shoes and pick up her phone, her movements mechanical and robotic, no life in her. He knew he should stop her, apologize, tell her that he loved her and never wanted to let her go. Sherlock listened to her step on the stairs, her footsteps light, a shadow moving through the darkness. Ironic, as he'd always been the darkness to her sunshine.

_Perhaps I've finally dragged her down far enough to extinguish her light._

The thought was cold steel twisting in his long-denied heart.


	44. Taken

**Here's another chapter! Enjoy!**

* * *

He stood frozen by the window for some time after seeing her stumble out of the flat and down the street, his mind strangely blank. Numb. Not the good kind of numb that came from a seven percent solution or sex with Molly. No, his mind felt sluggish. Heavy. Asleep. Dead.

_What a terrifying thought._

He had come to the conclusion that he was unable to think with Molly close by, but now, to his horror, he realized it was the other way around. He couldn't think without her. Even though he'd been bombarded with the need to keep her safe and random thoughts of her all the time, it hadn't impeded his brilliance. If anything she'd sharpened him.

_You blind idiot._

Sherlock had known that what he was doing was foolish and wrong but hadn't been able to stop himself from taking out his frustration on the only person within reach. The only person who really mattered to him. And now she was gone because of his actions.

After a few more moments of thought, he sprang from the window, his sudden movements alien in the stillness of the flat. As he turned, he heard the crunch of a paper underfoot. Sherlock looked down at it, annoyed at the noise that disturbed the silence of his brooding. His eyes narrowed and he moved his foot, examining the crinkled page, his brow furrowing in concentration. He stooped down, snatching it up and held it to the light.

His eyes widened, realization hitting him like a freight train.

On the page, written in Molly's familiar doctor's scrawl, were the details of each victim. It was the way she'd written them that caught his attention though.

**MO – F**

**RI – M**

**AT – F **

**TY – F **

**AN – M **

**DM – M **

**OR – M **

**AN – F **

She'd only written the initials of the victims and their sex. His eyes flitted back and forth on the paper and he nearly dropped it when he realized that the initals, in order of death, spelled out the words:

**MORIARTY AND MORAN**

Now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Sherlock knew that this had all been planned long before it began. His mind reeled. Nothing is a coincidence. Lestrade, the only officer in Scotland Yard who would be willing to work with him, being the one to find him high in an alley. Molly, who wasn't even a fully qualified pathologist, being the one to do the autopsies. Her boss being sick in the bathroom, _mild poison no doubt_, leaving her the only person on duty. Three sets of bodies showing up, with Sherlock unable to solve the puzzle without all the data. And now, the last piece falling into place, giving him the name of their tormentor.

Sherlock's head shot up. The name of their enemy.

If he was finally showing himself that meant that the game was almost over.

And Molly was out there.

_Oh God._

Sherlock was out of the room in a heartbeat, pulling on the Belstaff as he clattered down the stairs and flung open the door, bursting out into the night.

* * *

Nearly a half hour later, Sherlock was frantically running down the street, searching for his pathologist. He tried to calm himself enough to think, to consider what he knew of Molly and figure out where she would go. A fleeting memory made its way through his chaotic mind.

_"So this is where you went those times I couldn't find you. That's cheating, Doctor Hooper." _

She'd always eluded him the way no one else had. People were a puzzle to him, once solved, he didn't care to continue his association with them. Of course, there were a few exceptions, in the form of his close circle of confidants and friends. But even they were fairly simplistic and easy to deduce. Molly, on the other hand, was impossible for him to pin down. Just as soon as he was sure he knew everything about her, she would surprise him. He couldn't predict her, he couldn't contain her.

And God help him, he couldn't stop loving her.

His phone pinging with an incoming message in his pocket made him halt in his tracks, his momentum nearly sending him to the pavement.

**RUN, RUN, RUN, AS FAST AS YOU CAN.**

The phone rang just then and he thumbed the call button worriedly.

"Mycroft?!"

"Sherlock, where is Doctor Hooper?"

"Dammit Mycroft," he panted, putting a hand on his knees and bending over slightly to catch his breath. "If I knew do you think I'd be running around in the dead of night looking for her?!"

"Sherlock, I just received information that the four agents who were watching her went offline a half hour ago. They were all found dead less than ten minutes ago."

"Track her phone!" the detective screamed into his cell, causing several people passing by to stare at him and move on, hurriedly. Not that he noticed.

"We did. It was recovered from a dumpster not far from your current position."

Mycroft delivered the devastating news in a rapid monotone that Sherlock, if he had been in a calmer frame of mind, would have recognized as concern.

As it was, all Sherlock could process was cold fear settling in his chest like lead.

Vaguely, he heard Mycroft continue, telling him the location of the dumpster, as well as informing him that John and Lestrade were already on their way to meet him there along with more of Mycroft's men.

This would be kept out of the jurisdiction of regular law enforcement, handled by Mycroft himself. Sherlock's inability to think beyond his overwhelming guilt and fear kept him from realizing that reassuring fact until he had reached the location of the phone.

* * *

The detective jogged up to the area where Molly's phone was found in a small dumpster in a side alley off the main street.

"What the hell?! You just couldn't keep your bloody mouth shut, could you?!"

Sherlock's arse hit the pavement hard, seconds after his best friend's fist connected with his jaw. The detective shook his head ruefully, taking the proffered hand and pulling himself upright. He hadn't even seen the hit coming, his mind was so preoccupied.

He rubbed his jaw, dimly aware that he would have one hell of a bruise as a result of the doctor's wrath. John continued, shaking his hand and grimacing from both pain and anger.

Another ping sounded and Sherlock glanced at the message.

**YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME.**

"Dammit, Sherlock! You've gone and blown the best thing that ever happened to you and I hope you realize that now you might never get the chance to fix that!"

John stopped abruptly, paling as he realized what had just come out of his mouth. He shook his head violently.

"No, I didn't mean that, of course you'll get the chance to fix it, we'll get her back and everything-"

"You know that you are rambling John?" Sherlock muttered under his breath as he examined the area around the dumpster, but without his usual precision. It was useless anyway, he knew where they had to go already. He'd figured it out on his way over from where he'd gotten Mycroft's call.

_Speak of the devil and he shall appear._

Sherlock looked up just in time to see Mycroft strolling up with Anthea on his heels, for once, not on her phone. In fact, she looked a little flustered.

It seemed everyone was rather fond of his little pathologist.

"What is it, Mycroft? I'm on a time limit here."

"We found him."

John and Lestrade both began speaking at once, questioning Mycroft and Sherlock as to who was found, why they weren't told there was a suspect, and if Molly was alright.

The Holmes' remained silent, with Sherlock simply observing Mycroft's face, having an unspoken conversation with his brother.

Mycroft would have a lot of questions to answer after all this was over, but for now, Sherlock was content that his suspicions were confirmed.

Another message.

**P.S. GOT SOMETHING OF YOURS THAT YOU MIGHT WANT BACK.**

"Come along, John, Garrett."

"Oi, Greg!"

Sherlock turned to stride away but looked over his shoulder at his best friend. "I do hope you brought your gun."

"Better than that," a female voiced came from the direction of the street.

Sherlock's face lit up as he turned back and took in the sight of Mary, once again dressed in all black with a gun at her side.

"I hope that I'm not your target this time," he said, half joking, half serious.

"You weren't my target last time," she retorted. "You got in my way."

"I do that a lot," he allowed himself a brief smile as he began to stride away from the group of people, knowing they would follow him.

_Hang on, Molly. I'm coming._


	45. The Carriage

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* * *

"John and I will go in alone."

The party of about ten people, including John, Mary, Lestrade and some of Mycroft's men, stopped abruptly to avoid knocking over the tall consulting detective who had come to a sudden halt in front of them.

Lestrade opened his mouth to protest.

"Molly is our friend too, Sherlock," he said, annoyance and anxiety in his voice.

Sherlock turned around, raising a brow at the Yarder, ready to let loose his scathing deductions on the man. Before he could retort, however, Mary intervened.

"Must we do this now, boys?" she sighed, exhaustion and exasperation making itself known in her tone. "I think it's probably a good idea to save Molly before you two have a pissing contest over her."

Both men looked at the little woman decked out in black with a no nonsense expression on her face and nodded contritely. Sherlock's humility didn't last long however.

"Be that as it may, Mary, but John and I are still going in alone. Everyone else will have to wait here until we know exactly what we are dealing with."

"You mean you don't know?" John asked incredulously, glancing quickly to his wife, wondering again just why he was best friends with a raging lunatic.

Sherlock huffed and shifted back and forth attempting to appear calm and collected. "Of course I know. Or I know it will be one of three scenarios." He ruffled his hair and popped up the collar of his Belstaff.

"Just wait here then," he said, not waiting for an answer before striding off.

No one heard his soft mutter of, "Into battle then."

* * *

A few minutes later found John and Sherlock staring at a familiar sight.

They had stopped a few meters from the train carriage where they had foiled a plot to blow up Parliament on the 5th of November. It was the first case back for Sherlock after his extended hiatus of destruction.

It infuriated Sherlock to think that he'd overlooked something when it came to the perpetrator of that particular crime, but obviously he had. He'd overlooked a lot of somethings if this was what he thought it was.

John shuddered thinking of just how close they came to dying in the carriage before them. It wasn't an experience he wanted to relive but considering the situation they were in, it was entirely possible that death was once again an option in this particular location.

"Come gentleman, it's rude to keep your host waiting."

The voice echoed eerily off the walls and the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck rose, though he kept his expression neutral.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he called back. Sherlock turned a leisurely circle on his heel, his quick eyes taking in everything around him, but seeing nothing out of the ordinary until a slight movement from inside the carriage caught his gaze.

He stilled, nudging John gently and indicating the source of the movement with a barely perceptible nod. Slowly, Sherlock advanced and let himself into the carriage, taking a seat directly across from his enemy. John stood by the door, his eyes flitting back and forth between the two men, his friend and his opponent, concern and confusion etched on his face.

A sudden curse from the doctor broke the silent stare between the men and they both looked at John in mild surprise.

"How in the bloody hell did you get out of prison?" he asked, both frustrated and genuinely confused.

"Oh John, such an idealist. We really liked you, you know. In fact, you were my favorite. That bitch," the man's mouth quirked up in a smile as Sherlock's hands tightened into fists at his words, "was James' favorite, but you were mine. All that loyalty in a friend. Not even romantic interest to justify everything you sacrificed for him."

Lord Sebastian Moran, architect of the plot against Parliament and second-in-command to James Moriarty lounged in his chair, expounding his view to the army doctor who looked as if he was barely containing the urge to pummel the smug ex-politician. A barely healed scar ran along his handsome face and down to his neck. Sherlock felt a sense of satisfaction that Molly had caused that damage, but also distinctly felt that the job wasn't done.

"The world isn't as pure as you are," the criminal continued. "Scandals are an everyday occurrence and no politician who is worth his salt stays behind bars for long." Moran cast his gaze back to Sherlock. "You shouldn't have underestimated me."

Sherlock shook his head in protest but Moran merely laughed.

"You did, Sherlock. You watched me for years and never knew. Admit it. We gave you just enough to keep you interested but you have no idea what I truly am. Well, now maybe you do. But you really thought I was just some puppet of North Korea? I'm so much more than that. And lucky you, you get to find out first-hand what I am capable of. The game is on, Sherlock."

John choked and Moran turned to smile at him.

"What, a mere mole can't be something more? I was James' right hand man and bodyguard." He pulled out a handgun and laid it across a knee. "I'm as good or better shot than your wife. A bit reckless to let her flounce around in that tight black assassin's get up so soon after popping out a baby. How's the little one anyway? Still as chubby as she was at birth? I saw her you know," he leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "The security at the hospital is a bit lax, don't you think?" Moran laughed then. "I thought about poisoning her bottle or something but, like I said, you're my favorite."

John's jaw flexed and he was visibly shaking, but his army training allowed him to remain in his spot, not letting his feeling get the better of him. Sherlock warmed, knowing that John trusted him to know what to do. And he was finished letting the criminal across from him dominate the conversation and steer it from the most important point.

"Where is Molly?" The detective asked in a deadly calm voice.

"Oh she's safe, for now." Moran grinned. "But I never harbored the affection for her that James did. I think he might have actually loved her. But you had to go and ruin that, didn't you? Of course, Jim knew you would, but that didn't make it any less rude of you."

The man sniffed as if offended by Sherlock's deductions.

"And it was obvious to me that you simply **_adored_** the little whore," Moran watched as Sherlock's jaw clenched, the muscle twitching, before he continued, "but Jim never really believed it. Otherwise, I would've been able to convince him to let me put a bullet in her the day you fell."

Sherlock glanced over at John, who was still standing by the door, fists tight, waiting for an indication of what to do. He couldn't let his feelings and overwhelming fear distract him now or Molly might pay the price.

Moran leaned forward, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"Do you want to know how I got her?"

Sherlock remained silent, knowing he would be told whether he wanted to hear or not.

"Daniel."

John's brow furrowed and Sherlock's hand grasped his knee so hard that his knuckles went white. Moran chuckled at the men, shaking his head.

"Our little Molly really does have an affinity for bad men. When she left the flat after your spectacular breakdown, that was a sight to behold, Sherlock, wow, she headed down the street to get a cup of coffee. From there, it was simple to get Daniel, who works for me by the way, not of his own accord but because I'm paying for his daughter's chemo, to go and chat her up."

Moran spoke quickly and excitedly, a slight Irish drawl working its way into his carefully constructed English accent.

"You know, offer her a shoulder to cry on and an escort back to her flat for the night. Just a chloroformed handkerchief later and she was my guest. She hasn't been harmed. Yet. Of course," Moran paused and sighed dramatically, "Daniel just **_had_** to be boring and decide to act the hero and try to free her." He grinned wickedly. "So I forced Molly to pull the trigger on him. Now, **_that_** was fun." He shrugged. "He was too weak for her anyway. She needs a strong hand, am I right?"

At that moment, Sherlock lunged for Moran and the electricity went off.


	46. A Message for Mr Holmes

**Thanks so much for all the fantastic reviews. I know I say it a lot but I really do love you guys and appreciate all the kind words!**

* * *

The first thing he knew was a low roar, and many different voices murmuring indistinctly. Sherlock tried to open his eyes, to concentrate, but his head hurt so badly. He focused on the voices, eventually able to pick out John's repeating variants of the same sentence over and over.

"Everything happened so fast, with the lights going off and Sherlock yelling and the next thing I knew, he was gone."

_Who was gone? Oh, Moran._

The fog in the detective's brain slowly cleared and he grimaced in pain, eliciting a reaction from the people around him. He heard Lestrade's voice announcing to someone farther away that he was coming to, just before Sherlock was able to open his eyes.

"What the bloody hell?" was the first thing out of his mouth, as he glared up at John, Mary, Greg and Mycroft who were gathered around him, looking down at his prone form.

Mycroft's lips pursed and he looked rather displeased as Lestrade answered Sherlock's question.

"You nearly got yourself killed, mate. I told you to let us go in with you." The grey-haired Detective Inspector shook his head. "Now the bloke is gone and we still don't have Molly."

_Molly. Oh God, where's Molly?_

Sherlock sat bolt upright, wincing at the sharp pain in his head. He reached up to rub the source of the pain, and brought his hand back down with blood on it. He glanced up at John, a question in his eyes.

"He hit you in the back of the head with the gun when you went for him. I tried to help," John's voice cracked a little, "but it was dark and he was just gone. No one saw him leave."

Mary squeezed her husband's hand and offered Sherlock a small smile.

"Nonsense John, he can't be 'just gone.' He had to have gone **_somewhere._**" Sherlock reached up, grabbing John's offered hand and stood, swaying a bit as he got his bearings, trying to ignore the pounding in his skull. He looked over at the carriage, which was a few meters away, then back to the small group next to him.

"Mycroft, the hole," Sherlock said, beginning to unsteadily walk in the opposite direction from the carriage, his feet catching a couple times on the tracks. John caught up quickly, steadying the taller man each time he stumbled.

"Mmm," Mycroft agreed, his face still pinched, betraying his annoyance and worry.

_Try as you might, no one can not like Molly Hooper, not even you, Mycroft,_ Sherlock thought as he walked.

They arrived at the vent that would have directed the explosion from the carriage bomb up into Parliament, and peered up into it.

"He couldn't possibly have gone up there," Lestrade said in disbelief, glancing from Sherlock to Mycroft and back, then at John and Mary to see what their reaction was.

"Unfortunately, it is entirely possible and is indeed exactly what occurred," responded the British Government, looking simultaneously pleased with himself and utterly furious with his agents who didn't think to cover that escape route.

Sherlock stood silently staring up into the blackness, his mind racing, wondering where Moran had gone to ground and where he would resurface. It was obvious how this would end. Either he or Moran would die. The only important thing though, was if Molly would be alright.

* * *

Several hours later, Sherlock sat in his chair in 221B, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, eyes unfocused. He was reviewing every bit of information he had on Moran, which, in the current light of things, was just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.

Mycroft had settled into John's chair, also silently going over facts. John and his wife were engaged in quiet conversation with Lestrade, who Sherlock hadn't had the energy to tell off, and Mrs. Hudson was puttering about the flat, picking up things strewn around and crying a little bit when those things were Molly's.

His landlady had soundly beaten Sherlock with a rolled up magazine when she learned that Molly had been kidnapped and that Sherlock had been the reason Molly was out of the flat alone. When she ran out of energy, she'd collapsed onto the sofa and had a good cry, sobbing to Mary that she just wanted the sweet girl to be safe.

* * *

The night was long and arduous for all sequestered in the quiet flat. Mrs. Hudson had finally gone to sleep, taking Amanda with her so Mary and John could stay abreast of developments.

Unfortunately, there were no new developments.

Just after dawn, the eerie silence of the occupants of 221B was shattered by the ringing of Molly's phone where it lay on the arm of Sherlock's chair. The detective's eyes widened as the strains of the BeeGees' "Staying Alive" rang out through the flat. He snatched up the phone and glanced around the room as Mary sat up from her prone position on the couch and John stopped pacing to sit stiffly next to her. Mycroft simply gazed at Sherlock expectantly from John's chair, while Lestrade turned around in his seat at the desk, rubbing the drowsiness from his grim face.

Sherlock's hand shook as he pressed the button to open the message on her phone.

"I have a message to you from Molly," read Sherlock aloud. There was an attachment and after a deep breath, he opened it, thumbing the volume so everyone could hear.

There was a second of silence, then a soft melody began to play.

_If I should stay _

_I would only be in your way _

_So I'll go _

_But I know _

_I'll think of you every step of the way _

_And I... _

_Will always _

_Love you, _

_Will always _

_Love you _

_You _

_My darling you_

_Bittersweet memories _

_That is all I'm taking with me _

_So good-bye _

_Please don't cry _

_We both know I'm not what you need _

_And I... _

_Will always love you _

_I... _

_Will always love you _

_You,_

_I hope life treats you kind _

_And I hope you have all you've dreamed of _

_And I wish you joy and happiness _

_But above all this _

_I wish you love _

_And I... _

_Will always love you _

_I... _

_Will always love you _

_I, I will always love _

_You..._

_You _

_Darling I love you _

_I'll always _

_I'll always _

_Love _

_You…_

When the last strains of the melody died away, there was a click and then total silence. Sherlock sat, staring at the phone, his face and eyes completely blank as if he'd just shut down.

It was painfully clear what the message was, though it most definitely wasn't sent by her. Moran was letting his intentions be known through the lyrics of the famous love song.

Molly Hooper wasn't coming back.

Mary sniffed from across the room, breaking them all out of their reverie. Sherlock's eyes rose to meet Mycroft's which held an expression of pity for his younger brother. He nodded slowly, answering the question in Sherlock's eyes. The British Government cleared his throat when it became obvious that Sherlock wasn't going to say anything, and began to fire out orders rapidly.

"Mary, we'll need you in a window across from Bart's rooftop. John, you and the Detective Inspector will go with Sherlock and wait in the stairwell while he meets with Moran. Anthea," he turned, looking at the woman who had silently appeared in the doorway, "get Rogers, Lambert and Gregson, and have them outfitted in full tech and put them in windows as well. And outfit these four too." His PA nodded and began typing away on her Blackberry.

"Hold on," Lestrade said, his brow furrowed in confusion. "How do we know he'll be there?"

Mycroft exhaled, his face clearly advertising that he didn't have time for idiotic questions, but answered anyway.

"Staying Alive. Moriarty's ringtone. Ergo, Moran wants this to end at the same place Moriarty did. Bart's rooftop."

Lestrade grunted and looked to John, who slowly nodded.

Mycroft stood, and looked thoughtful for a moment, before moving to put a hand on Sherlock's unmoving frame. He shook the detective slightly eliciting a sharp inhale from Sherlock. He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder gently before straightening up and exiting the flat, climbing into the waiting car and speeding off to take care of other details.

* * *

**The song here is I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston.**

**I don't own it, obviously.**


	47. The Rooftop

**One reviewer said that I seemed like a nice person. I hope that opinion still stands after this chapter haha that being said, I really do enjoy reading all of your reviews, thank you for taking the time to leave them. Now, please don't stone me for this chapter!**

* * *

Sherlock paused at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath.

Mary and the other snipers were in position in the windows of buildings near Bart's. John and Lestrade were a couple steps down from the detective, guns and radios ready. They had confirmation that both Moran and Molly were present on the rooftop. The tension in the air was thick enough to slice with a knife.

The detective fingered the gun in his pocket, the cool metal soothing the burning of his over-agitated flesh.

Sherlock glanced once over his shoulder at John, nodding slightly, and pushed open the door, not caring that it slammed shut after him, the sound breaking through the stillness of morning on the roof. He blinked in the stark sunlight, his eyes adjusting from the darkness of the stairwell, before he slowly strode out into the line of sight of the other two occupants of the area.

Moran stood at the opposite end of the roof, away from Molly, who was standing near the edge on Sherlock's right. She wasn't restrained at all, and Sherlock wondered briefly why that was. He dismissed it, deciding it was all the better for them that she wasn't. He examined her out of the corner of his eye, not taking his attention completely off of his enemy, but got a good enough look at Molly to see dried blood from a cut above her eye and several large bruises blooming on her ivory skin. His jaw and eyes hardened as he turned his full attention back to Moran.

"Well, here we are." Moran was staring down at the place where Moriarty's body had fallen all that time ago. He looked up at Sherlock, malice in his gaze. "Once again, at the final problem. Drop the gun."

The detective obliged, pulling his handgun out of his pocket and tossing it in his enemy's general direction. "Well the last one was hardly my final problem, was it?" Sherlock quipped, keeping his handsome face void of all emotion. He couldn't afford to lose it now. Not when there was so much at stake.

Moran let out a sharp bark of a laugh and shook his head at Sherlock, casually twirling his gun around a finger.

"No, I suppose not," he agreed. "Though, James would have had a good laugh if he'd been here to see how you fooled him. Or rather," he corrected himself, "how **_she_** fooled him."

Sherlock tried to think of some way, any way, to keep Moran's attention away from Molly and on himself.

"Surely you don't think it was her. You know she isn't nearly intelligent enough to formulate a scheme like that and make it actually work." He winced as the words sprang from his mouth, sounding cold and calculating, and prayed to a God he didn't believe in that Molly knew what he was doing. He couldn't afford to look over at her to see if she did or not.

"You know I don't believe that for a second. James wouldn't have been so fascinated with her if she was stupid." He nodded in Molly's direction. "No, that one there is a smart one." He paused and shrugged. "But obviously not as smart as Jim, or you, or your brother, for that matter. Ah well, not everyone can be a genius."

"Not even you," Sherlock said, "You were just the hired gun."

"I hold my own." The man replied with a slight shrug.

"No you don't," Sherlock taunted. "Everything you've done to me was either master-minded and set up by Moriarty or a copy of his style. You are just a child playing with your big brother's toys. You'll never be my equal."

Moran shook his handgun at the detective. "Watch it, Sherl. I will still burn you, James' plan or not.

Moriarty's words, so full of hate, ran through Sherlock's mind.

_"I will burn the heart out of you."_

_Please, please, let him believe I don't love her._

"And we both know I was far more than muscle." Moran continued before he laughed again, the bitterness seeping through his composed demeanor. "We both know." He looked back down at the ground.

"Moriarty didn't have to act very hard to pull off being gay." The observation popped out of Sherlock before he really thought about it. Seeing Moran stiffen, he wasn't sure it had been a good idea. After a moment though, his opponent let out an actual, amused chuckle.

"Yeah, I told him he should do that when he met you. The best lie has a grain of truth in it, doesn't it Sherl?" He glanced again at Molly, the expression in his eyes feral.

"That's why it was easy for this bitch to believe you cared for her." He grinned evilly at the little pathologist and Sherlock heard a sniff from her. "Did he tell you pretty things, Molly? He wasn't completely lying. He does like you. But he isn't built like the rest of us. He'll never really love."

Sherlock couldn't resist glancing at Molly to gauge her reaction to Moran's taunting. Her lips were pursed and eyes narrowed, and she looked a bit like she wanted to make an obscene hand gesture at their tormentor. Sherlock's brow furrowed, trying to make the connection between the shy woman he knew and the (apparently) fearless one before him. There was a blankness in her gaze though, that sent a chill down Sherlock's spine. No light could be found in Molly's eyes, like hope had been sucked out of her. He hated himself for letting that happen to her. After a little more scrutiny, Sherlock noted with a great bit of surprise that she'd moved closer to him during the course of the conversation and wondered exactly what she hoped to accomplish.

"The rest of us poor mortals, we love."

Moran had gone back to staring at the ground, tears of anger and hurt in his eyes. He blinked up at Sherlock and out of nowhere began screaming at the detective.

"You took him from me! You were supposed to die! You're going to die!"

He swung the gun up.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw a blur of movement. Before he could react, Molly jumped into his arms, her body a shield for his, just as two shots rang out.

Suddenly, cold realization overtook Sherlock. He knew why Molly had not been restrained and was allowed to move closer to him. Because Moran knew exactly what she would do when Sherlock was threatened.

Everything slowed down. Sherlock howled in pain and rage as Molly crumpled in his arms.

"Stupid, stupid," he kept muttering, talking to a barely conscious Molly. "Why, Molly? Surely you knew I'd have a vest on? Why did you do it?"

Her words just before losing consciousness shattered his heart into a million pieces.

"I don't, count," she whispered softly, managing to lift a hand and cup his jaw before going completely limp.

John ran out from the stairwell and frantically began trying to staunch the blood flow from her lower back. Lestrade appeared, casting a worried glance to Molly, before hurrying over to Moran and putting a heavy foot on the man's chest. There was a ringing in Sherlock's ears as he gently eased Molly to the ground and stood, his face murderous. He stalked towards his fallen enemy, retrieving his gun along the way. Lestrade fell back a few steps as the detective approached the semi-conscious man on the ground.

Moran gazed up at Sherlock from the ground, blood seeping from the wound in his chest and trickling out of his mouth. He flung a limp hand up towards Sherlock, motioning feebly at Molly's blood, which stained Sherlock's clothes.

"You'll have to get a new coat," he coughed, grinning triumphantly, despite the pain that wracked his body. "Even if she survives, she'll never believe you love her. I took good care of that. But you and I," he gulped, trying to speak through the blood pooling in his throat, "You and I know that you do love her. You really do. The great Sherlock Holmes brought to his knees by a little doe-eyed girl. I told you. I told you I'd burn you." He coughed again as he tried to laugh at Sherlock, blood spraying from the mouth.

"Tell James hello from me," was Sherlock's only reply before pulling out his gun and emptying it into Sebastian Moran's head.

* * *

**Yeah... please don't kill me!**

**If you do, you'll never know the end of the story!**


	48. Collapse

**So yeah, sorry about this.**

* * *

Sherlock sat by Molly's bed, his head in his hands.

He mind reeled as he squeezed his eyes closed, trying in vain to block out the image of her face as she collapsed in his arms, the sound of her voice as she told him that she still didn't believe that she counted, the finality in her expression just before she passed out. His fists closed, pulling at his mussed curls, adding to the disarray he'd been making for the last five hours.

* * *

"Sherlock! I need you! I can't stop the bleeding!"

John's voice cut through the haze in Sherlock's mind as he stared down at his fallen enemy. His head snapped up, and he was running before his brain registered that he needed to do so.

He reached her side, sliding in on his knees, stopping himself with his hand, ignoring the cuts and tears from the rough surface. His eyes flitted quickly over her small frame, an expression of dismay on his features at the pooling blood that John seemed unable to stop.

_The bullet, the bullet. Where is it?_

Sherlock remembered when he had been shot by Mary and the questions the Molly, Mycroft and Anderson in his mind palace had asked him. He checked her still form over more carefully and found the exit point of the bullet, oddly enough, in her inner thigh. As he pointed it out to John, who cursed, Sherlock's mind replayed the scene, noting the flight path of the bullet and the angle in which it entered her body. He looked on in horror as John turned her a bit to get a better look at the wound and the blood continued to pour from it.

"Shit, her femoral artery is shattered. Sherlock, she's bleeding out. We need help now!"

As if on cue, several trauma staff burst through the door and onto the roof, sprinting towards the two men, followed closely by Mycroft.

Sherlock refused to let go of Molly while Mycroft's medical personnel wrapped her thigh to put pressure on it and when they declared that she needed to be taken to emergency staff immediately, he scooped her up in his arms, striding quickly to the door and down the stairs into the hospital, running through the halls and out to the street where an ambulance waited to take her to the nearest A&E at Royal London Hospital. He didn't let her go when they loaded her tiny body onto a stretcher and he climbed into the vehicle after her, to the protests of the workers. A nod from Mycroft, who wasn't far behind, stopped their words though, and the ambulance rushed off, with Lestrade and Mycroft following in one car, while John waited a few more moments for Mary to join him, and followed in a separate car with his wife and Anthea.

When they finally arrived at the hospital, he was forced to leave Molly's side. He fought to stay with her, but by then, Lestrade and Mycroft had gotten there as well and together, they physically removed the frantic detective from the woman's side and took him to the waiting room where he eventually stopped fighting them under the threat of sedation from one of the nurses.

He'd collapsed then, still covered in his lover's blood, his knees hitting the floor painfully, jagged bits of the rooftop still caught in his trousers digging into the flesh. He hardly noticed. He sat numbly as John fetched a first aid kit and brushed away the pieces, pushing the legs of Sherlock's trousers up to get a good look at his knees. He doused them with antiseptic and turned his attention to Sherlock's hand, treating it in the same manner.

Throughout John's treatment, Sherlock didn't move or make a sound. His eyes were dazed and blank and he stared at the floor without really seeing it.

Sherlock raced through his mind palace, searching for Molly. He was frantic, looking for the woman who held his entire existence in her tiny hands. He threw open doors, desperate to find her, to hold her and tell her that everything would be alright and that he'd spend the rest of his life proving to her that she did count.

That he loved her.

The image of himself wrenched open the door to Moriarty's former prison, screaming at the psychopath who was once again in chains, joined now by Moran, who was the picture of arrogant confidence.

"No! You won't take her from me!" he yelled at the figures before him, pain coursing through his body, so much worse than the physical pain from when Mary had shot him.

"Too late, Sherlock. Tick tock goes the clock! Counting down to when Molly Hooper **_DIES_**!" Moriarty laughed manically, pulling at his bonds, lunging towards Sherlock.

"I told you! **_I told you!_** I burnt the heart out of you! You wanted to deny it, to make the world think that you had none. But I found it Sherlock. And now I've torn it out of you!" the criminal said the last part in a sing-song voice, mocking the detective in front of him.

"She'll die, Sherlock. She'll die and you'll have never told her." Moran now spoke, his voice calm and low, with a note of pure evil in it. "Never given her the assurance she needed to know she was loved. And it'll kill you. Slowly but surely, you'll rot, your intelligence wasted away in your ever growing self-hatred. And then, what? Back to the drugs? Back to shooting yourself so full of them that you couldn't think even if you wanted to? Until one day you just can't take it anymore and you put an end to your miserable existence?"

The image of Moran and Moriarty blurred together and Sherlock saw Molly's small body, drenched in her own blood, falling. He tried to run to her, but to his horror, he couldn't move and was forced to watch as she fell on and on, until she finally hit the ground, the dull thud of her frame echoing through his mind.

Tears streamed from Sherlock's eyes, both within his mind palace and in his outer body. He was oblivious to his friend's attempts to comfort him, all his energy focused inward.

He couldn't lose her, he couldn't. In a flash, the image in his mind palace changed to the little boy who had lost his best friend, only friend, Redbeard. He was screaming and wailing, the pain now so much more unbearable. So much worse than ever before. The palace collapsed around the little boy, burying him in the debris of everything he knew and everything he was. An emptiness spread through Sherlock, all engulfing, his world going down in flames.

No, he couldn't lose her. He wouldn't survive it.


	49. Bedside

She'd been lucky, relatively speaking. The bullet had entered her lower back at a severe angle, traveling down and out through the inner thigh, miraculously missing all bones and organs. It had, however, shattered the main artery in her leg and she'd had to have one donated, along with two transfusions.

It had been touch and go throughout, and it was nothing short of miraculous that she'd survived the trip to the hospital, having lost so much blood. She'd flat lined once, on the operating table, but oddly, had come back on her own, much in the way Sherlock had when he was shot by Mary.

That alone gave the detective much to ponder.

"Tell me."

Sherlock gave John a withering look. "Really? Right now you want to know? Can't this wait?"

John looked at the bed. The small woman on it was still fast asleep, she had been under sedation for several hours now, ever since the surgery that saved her life, to give her body time to accept or reject the donated artery.

"All we have is time right now, Sherlock."

He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, obviously rethinking them, especially since his best friend's face clearly said what they both knew. That there might not be much time at all. If Molly's body rejected the donated artery, she would develop an infection that, in her fragile state, could easily kill her, even with antibiotics.

Sherlock sighed, his usually ramrod-straight posture now almost non-existent as he slouched in the chair closest to his pathologist.

"Alright, what do you want to know?" he asked, turning to face the former army doctor.

John thought a minute before replying. "I guess you should start with the serial killings."

Sherlock's mind raced through the details of each body, his brain overwhelming him with information until he thought he would burst. His eyes flitted to Molly, unconsciously seeking comfort from her, even though she was unable to give more than her presence at the moment. Even that helped ease the rush of thoughts through his mind.

He momentarily forgot that John was in the room as he stared at her. Molly's soft pink lips were parted slightly and her dark lashes made shadows against her ivory skin. Sherlock wondered how he had ever been able to ignore her. He knew he would be acutely aware of her for the rest of his life. Even if she wasn't in it.

When Sherlock didn't reply, John tried another tactic.

"So Moriarty and Moran set all this up right after you tried to solve Carl Powers' murder?" he asked.

Sherlock came back to reality with a start and began spouting off his answer almost robotically.

"I assume so," replied the detective, a world weary expression on his face. "Though," he added, "it wasn't set into motion until the night I met Lestrade," he paused, "and Molly."

John sucked in a breath, hating to ask the next question, but needing an answer to calm his own worries. "Do you think they intended for you to love her?" he inquired of his best friend.

Sherlock gave him the patented 'don't be an idiot, John,' look and shook his head. "Of course not. No one could have foreseen that, not even me. No, they just gave me a person who was easy to manipulate."

John started to protest but Sherlock stopped him.

"Don't give me that, you and I both know she's easy manipulated." He looked down at the petite woman, still sleeping in the hospital bed. "It's only because she's too good to people. They take advantage of her sweetness."

He and John sighed at the same time.

"They gave me someone I could use, knowing I'd have no problem doing it if it meant I could solve cases faster. They knew that I would appeal to her, possibly from observation of her, possibly from reading in between the lines of her personal files."

John was quiet for a moment, pondering the new information. Sherlock's gaze went back to Molly, lamenting how fragile she looked, her skin mottled with bruises and cuts. He was sure he'd never be rid of the guilt he carried for her condition.

"So all this time they've been setting you up, for what? To die?" John's brow was furrowed, the pieces obviously not adding up for him.

"No, John. To fall. Death was merely a side effect. They wanted to build up someone who could rival them, play games with me, then defeat me. It just so happened that forcing me to commit suicide ended up part of the plan."

"But they underestimated Molly," John elaborated and Sherlock nodded his agreement.

"Yes, they underestimated her. Which is why she was attacked that day in the morgue. That would have been the end of it for her, even when he didn't succeed in killing her if I hadn't been foolish enough to show affection for her. Moran saw how I'd allowed my feelings to cloud my judgement and changed the original plan. If I hadn't fallen in love, she wouldn't have been involved. She wouldn't be here."

Sherlock's voice broke on the last sentence and he buried his face in his hands.

"Don't blame yourself, Sherlock. It isn't your fault those psychopaths took an interest in you because you're brilliant." There was no flattery in John's tone when it said it. To him, and many others, Sherlock's brilliance was a simple fact.

"Sherlock, she wouldn't, won't," he corrected himself, "want you to blame yourself for this."

"Of course she won't, John," Sherlock snorted, his voice dripping with irony. "We've already established that her personality dictates that she let people walk all over her."

"Not people, Sherlock. You. She's not half so accommodating for anyone else. She does it for you."

Sherlock's expression was pained. "Then don't you think I've taken advantage of her enough?" he asked in a quiet voice.

John shook his head violently. "Don't you dare, Sherlock. Don't you dare abandon her now out of some false sense of chivalry."

"Don't you get it, John? As long as I do this, as long as I am the consulting detective, I'll have enemies. I can't watch her all the time. Someone will get through. Someone will take her and I can't be the cause of that. Not again."

John stood, and crouched down in front of Sherlock, getting directly eye level with the detective.

"Sherlock, don't throw away the best thing that has ever happened to you." John pleaded with his friend. "She needs you. And you need her."

Sherlock shook his head half-heartedly, unable to admit that he did in fact, need Molly Hooper. He supposed that he had indeed grown, now that it seemed he was putting Molly before his own selfish needs. Yes, he needed her, but she didn't need him. She was far stronger than he was and much better off without his stupidity in her life.

"Really, Sherlock?" John asked in an exasperated tone, mindful to keep his voice somewhat low, even though Molly was highly unlikely to react to shouting, even right next to her bed. "You pick now of all times to grow a conscience?!"

"You know she's better off without me!" Sherlock snapped back.

"Of course she is," John agreed calmly. "But there's no going back now. If you end this it will destroy both of you."

With that, John got up from his crouching position and exited the room, leaving Sherlock to his watchful vigil over Molly Hooper's still form.

* * *

**Note: In case some of you are a bit incredulous about the nature of her gunshot wound, let me assure you that yes, it is completely possible, as it happened to my grandfather a few years ago. Granted, his was the other way around, entering the inner thigh and exiting the lower back, but same concept. And he was given an artificial artery, which his body rejected, then they transplanted an artery from a cadaver. He was 84 at the time and survived, and is still living today with only minor complications from the ordeal.**


	50. Recovery

**We're rapidly coming to the end of this fic. I'm happy in some ways, because I've been working on it for months now and honestly, it's exhausted.**

**In some ways, I'm sad though. This is my first 'epic length' fic as someone called it and I'll be sad to leave my characters.**

**Oh well, there's still a few chapters to go so I shouldn't get too emotional yet.**

**Oh, and I added an alternate ending to this fic called Forever, that takes place after chapter 48. It's not happy, be warned.**

* * *

Molly had been on the mend for nearly two weeks now, and had been using crutches ever since halfway through the first week to get around. Sherlock had stayed long enough to see her open her eyes on the third day, but stayed out of her line of sight. He'd panicked then, the feeling in his chest overwhelming him, and he'd turned and run out of the room, going back to the flat. He hadn't left since, ignoring both the pathologist and cases, as well as John.

Mycroft had been to see her every day, under the guise of informing Sherlock on her progress. While he had done that, Sherlock knew that Mycroft had a soft spot for the little woman, and would go to see her even if Sherlock was there himself.

Sherlock hadn't slept in going on three days. The sleep he had gotten then was fitful and he'd tossed and turned, reaching out for Molly, only to feel the coolness of the sheets where her warm body should have been. His eating habits were worse; he couldn't remember the last thing that he had eaten.

He'd spent his time wandering through his mind palace, at first trying to delete memories of his love, eventually giving up and simply remembering every moment they'd spent together. He thought of how her hair smelled after she'd showered, and the way she looked covered in bubbles when he burst in on her baths. Sherlock recalled the sounds she made when sleeping, the soft sighs and unconscious moans as she rolled over, invading his sleeping space. He remembered how it felt to hold her in his arms, her petite body pressed against his, the overwhelming protective feeling making his chest tight.

And he thought about when they'd made love. His name falling from her lips at the heights of ecstasy, the tensing of her muscles just before she came, the way she held onto him as he moved within her. When he'd first pulled her close for a kiss, her tiny body wrapped in a towel, the primal urge to rip it off of her and take her right then. The alleyway, when he'd made her swear that she was his and only his. The first frantic coupling against the wall, his eyes had flitted to the spot automatically. Making love in the new tub he'd bought her for Valentine's Day, knowing how much she missed the one she'd enjoyed at her own flat and hoping that she'd like his better. When he'd undressed and teased her in the kitchen before carrying her to his bed to ravish her over and over. Taking her on the kitchen table, making her scream as he smacked her bum, forcing her to count as he punished her for taking over his entire existence. Finding her again and again that night, losing himself inside of her sweet warmth.

It all seemed so long ago, though the last time he'd had her was a little over two weeks before. The day before he was stupid enough to drive her away and give Moran the perfect opportunity to take her.

Sherlock had stopped his remembrances at that. It was too painful to think of the way he'd callously pushed her away, not even turning when she'd walked out the door.

He began composing without even realizing it. There was certainly no conscious decision to do so. He only noticed he was doing it when he'd played the same melody over and over for hours. His arms ached, his fingers cracked and dry, close to bleeding, but still he played on, lost in the song that said everything he felt for Molly.

The melody was longing, low, slow notes drawing out the first part of the song, when he had suppressed his feelings for the little pathologist, before turning to a quick, light tune, full of hope and promise. Visions of her smile ran through his head as he played. Then, the lower notes came back, but sounding more like a swift, violent storm. Her face, blank, devoid of all emotion. Then it switched over to a minor key, the melody haunting and sad, visions of the sterile hospital room running through Sherlock's head. It ended rather abruptly after that, as Sherlock didn't yet know what the tone of the final movement would be.

He couldn't bring himself to go back to the hospital, but anxiously awaited when she could come home. Then, when she was safely back with him at Baker Street, he'd find the courage to tell her exactly what she meant to him. He was sure of it.

Despite what he'd told John about his decision to leave her alone, Sherlock knew he wasn't strong enough to give her up for good. He recognized his own addictive personality and knew he couldn't go forever without his fix. Only now, instead of craving a seven percent solution, (of course, those cravings were always going to be there, only now he could shut them down,) he craved her. He couldn't live without her touch, her presence. Molly Hooper was Sherlock Holmes' new drug and he didn't intend to ever be without her.

"Sherlock, you haven't been to the hospital since Molly came out of the sedation!"

John slammed the door behind him as he entered 221B. Sherlock stood by the window in his dressing gown, his violin dangling from one hand, the bow from the other. He hadn't moved from that position in hours. John held some flowers in his left hand, down by his side.

"She's getting out of the hospital tomorrow, Sherlock. She's walking well, though," John gave a rueful laugh, "I know you already know that since Mycroft is there at least once a day. I'm sure he's reporting to you." He shook his head. "Never thought I'd see the day when Mycroft is more attentive to Molly than you are."

The detective turned to face his friend and shook his head. "I can't go back there. I'll wait until Molly comes here to talk to her."

John cocked his head to the side and Sherlock got the odd feeling that his friend was mimicking his style of deducing people.

"Are you sure she'll come here?"

"Of course she will," Sherlock said dismissively. "Where else would she go? We've already established that she'll forgive me for putting her in danger, which I assure you will never happen again."

John was silent, but then nodded. "I suppose you're right. But you better make sure it doesn't," he added, shaking a finger at Sherlock, who nodded solemnly.

"Anyway, I'm on the way to take her some flowers now. Anything you want me to tell her?" John held up the bouquet that had been hanging by his side the entirety of the conversation.

Sherlock thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No everything I have to say is better left to do face to face," he replied. "I'll say it tomorrow."

_One more day. I can find the courage to do it in one more day._

* * *

**This one is for Lisa, my sweet, sweet friend who really needs good thoughts today. If you remember to, please take a moment to send a good thought her way today.**


	51. A Grave Miscalculation

**Thanks for all the comments and reviews everyone! You're so sweet and I love you all!**

* * *

He listened as her slow, tentative footsteps sounded on the stairs to 221B.

Sherlock closed his eyes, drinking in the sound that he'd been afraid of never hearing again. Molly was home. His brow furrowed; where was everyone else though? He was sure that John had told him they were going to accompany Molly back to Baker Street to make sure she made it alright. He peeked out the window just in time to see Mycroft's car round the bend of the street.

_Hmm…_

He turned his attention back to the doorway as Molly appeared, grimacing in pain and panting a bit. Sherlock dashed across the room, scooping her up in his arms and gently depositing her in John's old chair, before plopping down in his own.

He was nervous, afraid of what he knew he needed to tell her. So nervous, that he didn't take the time to properly look at her stricken face.

They were both silent for a moment, before Sherlock spoke.

"It occurs to me that you would want an explanation for my absence from your side during your recovery," he said, as if the idea was really just coming to him.

He took Molly's silence for an affirmative and launched into his carefully prepared speech.

"I apologize for my absence, I had some loose ends to tie up."

_Liar._

He winced at his own internal voice berating him but plunged ahead.

"I feel that you will think that I owe you an apology which I will gladly give, after you hear me out."

She stopped him then, simply holding her hand up. Sherlock finally looked at her, really looked, and his eyes widened. She looked tired, but more than that, she looked defeated. It was then that Sherlock realized what a grave miscalculation he had made.

"Molly," he began, desperate to repair his horrendous mistake in not being by her side throughout her recovery.

"No, Sherlock," she stopped him, her voice quiet but strong.

She sighed, her body seeming to pull into itself, as she made herself even smaller than she normally was by pulling her legs up and absentmindedly rubbing the area where her wound was still healing.

"Do you know?" she whispered, not meeting his eyes. His brow furrowed, not following her train of thought. After a moment, she clarified, still in that small voice. "Do you know what he did to me?"

Sherlock's hands tightened on the arms of his chair, his knuckles turning white. He didn't know beyond the obvious. The fresh bruises that day on the rooftop told him some things but he wasn't privy to everything that she'd told the therapist, even though Mycroft had been in the room with them for some reason. He wasn't really sure he wanted to know.

She took a deep breath and spoke quickly. Sherlock got the impression that if she didn't get it all out at once, she wouldn't be able to, so he was silent as she spoke.

"When I left here, I went to the café. I needed to clear my head. Not long after I got there, Daniel walked in. He spotted me and came over and said that I looked a wreck and was I alright? I told him no but didn't explain anything and he offered to see me to my flat. I told him yes and he hailed a cab. I gave directions but the next thing I knew, the driver had looked back at me and it was him. Moran. I recognized the scar and I screamed, but Daniel put something over my face. I suppose it was a chloroformed cloth."

Sherlock hmm'ed his agreement with her, not bothering to mention that he already knew that part from when he met Moran in the underground carriage.

She took another breath and plunged back in, twisting her hands in her lap as she recited her ordeal to the quiet detective.

"When I came to, I was tied to a chair. And my, my shirt was gone, and my trousers, but I still had on my bra and knickers. I was so scared," her voice broke and she sniffed a little, and Sherlock could see her basically willing the tears to not fall. They didn't and he was amazed again by the strength hidden behind her soft demeanor. "I was so scared that he would hurt me like, like Jim did."

Sherlock's grip tightened on the arm of his chair once more and he could hear the crack of his knuckles.

"He didn't though. He didn't." She paused to collect herself. "Daniel… Daniel came in while Moran was out. He told me he was so sorry and started untying me, and said I had to get out of there. And I asked him what would happen to him if I went, but he didn't get to answer me because Moran came in and hit him with the butt of a gun. I think I screamed, because Moran looked at me then and grabbed my shoulder and forced me to get up. He, he shoved the gun in my hands and pointed it at Daniel and pressed my finger down."

She choked back a sob, her voice shaking.

"It took three shots, because he couldn't aim very well using my hands. After he was… gone… Moran told me that he really did have a little girl and that now that he was dead, no one would take care of her. It's my fault the little girl is an orphan now."

Her face was forlorn as she gazed into her lap.

"I killed him, I killed Daniel and not the therapist, nor your brother, can convince me otherwise."

Sherlock's gaze narrowed as she mentioned Mycroft comforting her. He opened his mouth to ask exactly what the British Government had said to her, but she began talking again.

"Then Moran was gone and they just left me with Daniel's body. There was someone else watching me, but from outside the room. He left for a long while and when he came back he said he'd gone to see you. He said that you were," she paused. "That you were happy that you had a case and it didn't matter that it was me that was missing. That you hadn't shown any signs of caring at all."

Sherlock began to protest but thought better of it. He needed to wait until she'd finished.

"He hit me then. Over and over. He called me names and said that it was my fault that Jim was dead. That if Jim hadn't liked me then it would be you who would have died. That you would never love me the way Jim had. That I wasn't good enough for either of you."

Now, her face had lost all the emotion of a few moments before and once again, the blankness dominated her expression. Sherlock hated it. Hated the robotic movements where once there was such a beautiful smile and a light in her eyes when she looked at him.

"After a while, I guess I passed out. The next thing I knew, they were throwing my clothes at me and telling me to get dressed. And he told me I was going to have to make a choice, but he wouldn't tell me what it was."

Sherlock interjected then.

"Molly," he searched for what he really wanted to say. "Molly, why did you?"

The love in her gaze nearly broke him.

"I couldn't let you fall," she replied simply, and he knew she wasn't only referring to the rooftop, but everything she had done for him since they met, all those years ago.

She looked away then and he knew that what she had to say next wasn't going to be good.

"I'm not here to move back in, and continue on as before." She stopped, obviously searching for the right words and Sherlock waited, praying he was wrong about where her thoughts were headed.

"But," she gulped, looking down at her hands. "I thought it would be wrong of me to go without giving you my reasons why."

"No, Molly." It escaped him, a quiet, pained whisper, pleading for her to stop, to let him hold her, to tell him that she forgave him and still loved him. He wasn't even sure what he was asking for anymore.

"You know this won't work." She shook her head, her expression full of pain. "We won't work. I am a distraction, a hindrance to you, nothing more. The work is all that matters." She parroted his words back to him.

He wanted to correct her, tell her that she was the only thing that made his life worthwhile. But he didn't. Sherlock waited, knowing that he would accept her decision because she was right, though not for the reasons she was citing.

He didn't deserve her. After all, he grimaced as a line from a long forgotten musical his parents had dragged him to came to mind, 'a bird may love a fish, but where would they make a home together?'

And he loved her. He truly, deeply, loved her. But she was too good for him. He didn't deserve her unconditional love and devotion. He wasn't a good man. Not good enough for her.

He sat in silence, watching her face, drinking her in for the few moments he had left with her. She looked to be waiting for him to respond, to do something, anything, but Sherlock was frozen in his spot, unable to move. Not to run, or to comfort the petite woman in front of him.

Finally, she sighed and stood.

"I'm done, Sherlock. I'm not going to let you kill what little part of me that I have left." She shrugged slightly and began painstakingly making her way to the door.

Sherlock panicked, not knowing what to do to make her stay. His voice was strained as he called out to her.

"No, Molly, please, I can't lose you."

_Please, please don't leave me. I love you so much._

She paused, her hand on the door and looked back over her shoulder with tears in her eyes.

"You already have."


End file.
